


A Good Ol' Fashioned Hell-Raising

by Silverskye13



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Cattle Drive, Come on its a western au you know how this goes, Country & Western, M/M, Ranching, Round-Up, Western, gunfights, none of these are verified AO3 tags and that makes me laugh, shoot-outs, there's probably not a lot of western aus floating around here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 69,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23756062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverskye13/pseuds/Silverskye13
Summary: It's a western au I don't know what you want from me. Its dumb. It's stereotypical. It's gay. You've seen movies.[Will update this synopsis when I figure out more of the plot or whatever]A gang of outlaws moves in on the sleepy little town of Deadwood. Unfortunately for them, there's a pair of outlaws already in town - and they like the streets better when they're quiet.
Relationships: W. D. Gaster/Grillby
Comments: 175
Kudos: 176





	1. First There Was Fire

Trouble finds you. There ain’t no law in this world that’ll keep it off you. Fact of it is, seems the more law there is, the more trouble comes with it. Not like setting order to chaos ain’t something natural to common folk. Setting order to the wild places of this wide world is about the only thing that lets most folks live comfortably. Problem being the world on its own  _ is  _ trouble, and trouble don’t like straight fence lines and stagecoaches. Trouble don’t like folks steppin’ all over where it’s been - and trouble is, it’s been everywhere.

Point being, Grillby had had about enough as he could stomach of trouble and all its lot. They’d been close friends a long, long time. But he’d kicked it years ago, leastwise he thought he had. Put it out to pasture with the rest of the wiles of his youth, when he was fixin’ himself up to be a rattlesnake in a coal pit just bitin’ everything he could get ahold of. But fires burn cold over time and Grillby figured himself for a candle right about now. Something small and comfortable, and warm enough if you wanted. 

All fire is trouble though. Best friends, those two, nearly closer than smoke. _Nearly_. And Grillby had gotten mighty comfortable in his little bar in Deadwood. 

It was a quiet town for quiet folk, out west enough to feel wild and dangerous but close enough to Fort Chase to keep most of the rougher folks moving on their way. Wasn’t much there by way of valuables - hell it’d started out as a trading post. Matter of fact, the only reason the town managed to grow up was on account of the river winding nearby, making the lands around good for herding. The Dreemurr _AD-_ brand was on every animal with four hooves between Fort Chase and Breezeport, and half the folks in Deadwood worked under him for one reason or another. There was a bank, a tailor, a general store [that one was new], and of course the local watering hole was Grillby’s place. They were in the works of building an inn and a church since the stagecoach had just started putting down track in their town - mostly ‘cause of the Fort. Rumor had it Fort Chase might be getting a train station laid near it soon. Really life in Deadwood was starting to look mighty blessed.

And just when things are starting to look their best, now _that’s_ when trouble likes to make its grand entrance. As fate would have it, trouble came rolling up with the stage coach that evening, sniffing after more of its ilk. He was looking mighty humble, all things considered. All dressed in black, but that was standard affair for a reverend. Someone might’ve even mistaken him for the pastor of the new church if it weren’t for how he walked straight for the bar as soon as the coach dropped him off, and the peculiar happening that he’d decided to ride shotgun coming into town.

Grillby didn’t take much notice of him at first. Sure he looked a bit rough, but most folks this far out west were rough enough to wear out their clothes from the inside. There was a bit of a sense about him, just enough off-ness that Grillby gave him a second glance when he took his seat at the bar - the only good thing about those folks that’ve known trouble was that they tend to have a sense of it in other people. They get a sight for it, like catchin’ heat waves on a summer day. But while Grillby certainly felt something peculiar about this shade that had darkened his door, trouble didn’t quite bleed out of him in the ways he expected. So he let him alone to order his drink in peace. 

Kickin’ wasps’ nests and all that.

Nah, it wasn’t ‘till further into the evening that Grillby really got to place why this stranger kept shivering up his spine the way he did. There was a pair of younger travelers at the bar - cow punchers by the way they talked, though they were awful green. And they took a keen interest in the wanted board up by the front door. So close to the Fort, the Law had seen fit to keep Grillby up to date on the shady characters comin’ through - just in case. The board had seen a good deal of use too. Torn pages littered the board, most of the printings newer, with various reward amounts typed in with a heavy printing press. Two of the posters though were old, worn, crinkled around the edges from years’ shuffle but still there. A pair of outlaws that’d never been caught, and if the shotty work of the printed sketch were any indication, they’d never really been rightly looked at. 

It was a pair of monsters - rare for outlaws as most were a bit too frail to survive the business for long. Both characters had their handkerchiefs tied about their faces, hats pulled low over their eyes. But the one was billowing smoke, and the other had a pair of bright keen eyes that glowed out from underneath the brim of his hat. For those passing by who could read, there was under each image a name, a short description of their looks, attacks, and crimes - not the least of which being gun fighting and train robbing. And at the very bottom of the page in large bold print, “$5,000 REWARD, WANTED, DEAD OR ALIVE.”

Most folks agreed $5,000 was an awful lot of money for the dust of a pair of outlaws. Certainly the pair of greenhorns eyeing the wanted posters thought so.

“Still can’t believe they ain’t caught those fellers yet,” he was a human, sandy blond hair with a thin weasel-y sort of face that matched the tenor of his voice, “You’d think $5,000 would put the whole country chasin’ after ‘em.”

“What I wouldn’t do for that kinda money,” his companion was a cat monster that carried himself like a bear with the size to match, “Wouldn’t have to hire out at the Dreamurr place eatin’ dust all day, that’s for damn sure.”

“Yeah, but they ain’t hit a train for years,” weasel-face waved Grillby over to refill his drink, “Reckon they got kil’t by some other outlaw somewhere? Or maybe they’re layin’ low in the wild country somewhere.”

“I’d be layin’ low if I was them. All that gold they stole - probably set ‘em up for life.”

“No outlaw’s ever set up for life.”

That was when the stranger spoke up, snapping up both the cowhands’ attention, and gleaning a curious look from Grillby as well. The stranger’s long, spindly fingers were wrapped around his whiskey glass, that wide-brimmed hat shadowing his face, though there was a tilt to his head that said he’d caught those boys in a long sideways glare, tracking them out of the corner of his eye. Hunched over his glass like that he had a look more like a hungry buzzard than a parson.

“Puts an itch in you, that kinda work,” he continued, his voice low and smooth, “Like fire right up in your veins. Sure there’s folk who find a way to ignore it for a spell, but it’s always there, talkin’ at you. You could go riding one last time. Dust off that six-shooter, find yourself one last train. Get away with it one last time.”

The stranger drained his glass, “And that’s when even the most dangerous outlaw gets caught.”

It was then that he jabbed a thumb up against the brim of his hat, tipping it back to unobscure his face. And though Grillby always burned warm, there was then a moment where a chill like the east wind whipped through him. 

“Who knows, maybe you boys will finally be the lucky ones that catch Hellraiser and Gunsmoke when they hit their last train?”

There was an uneasy silence before that weasel-faced hand spoke up, “You uh, you with the Law, Mister?"

"When I want to be," the stranger flashed them a grin, an easy-going sort of smile that caged snakes behind his teeth, "Ain't you two got somewhere to be?"

Catching the hint a little faster than his friend, the cat monster stood from his seat, "Reckon we do. C'mon," and with a discarded protest from his friend, the two cowhands ushered themselves from the bar, leaving it empty.

"You always were bad for business," Grillby muttered, though there was a brightening spark in his flame that smiled more than his voice let on, "What's put you back on my side of the country, Gaster?"


	2. Then There Was Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we give the Western Standard Exposition Dump

Gaster and Grillby were quite the night and day to each other all things considered - and not just on account of Grillby being a fire monster and Gaster favoring his all black dress. For one, Gaster was a spindly sort of fellow. All bone and magic and not much else besides, and tall enough to remind someone of a gangly old desert tree clinging to the edge of the wilderness. Meanwhile Grillby was broad shouldered and hard and he carried himself like a rock on a hillside - he was the kind of fire that would burn long and slow. Where Gaster was all crooked lines and bending limbs, Grillby was a barred door in a brick wall. And while Gaster’s voice was a smooth, rolling sound like warm coffee, Grillby’s was sharp like tumbled gravel.

But they got along just fine.

“You know, it took me ages to find you out here,” Gaster smiled as Grillby refilled his glass, “Never figured you’d put down roots in a whiskey barrel.”

“It’s an honest living, and it’s easy enough,” Grillby ushered around the empty room, “Don’t get too used to this picture though. As soon at the hotel gets finished the stage will drag in more folks than we’ll be able to count. And how about you? Working for the Law?”

“Nah,” Gaster waved his hand, swatting away the thought, “Mostly I just travel. I had a one-time job in a posse south of here but that’s about as close as I got.”

“I heard rumors of a gun-slinger getting hired down there when the Bradley boys got caught.”

Gaster flashed him a mischievous smirk, “That word traveled all the way up here, did it?”

“It was the talk of the town for a bit,” Grillby picked up a glass to polish it idly, “Any quick-shot not hired by the army or behind bars tends to get people excited.”

Gaster nodded.

“The uh, parson get-up your bright idea to travel unnoticed?”

“You don’t think it works?”

“Just funny,” Grillby smirked, “What happens if someone asks you to give a sermon?”

“I’ll give one,” Gaster slipped a little black book free from his jacket pocket, “I might not do a damn thing this thing says, but I _have_ read it once or twice.”

“Ain’t there a special place in hell for hypocrites and the like?”

“I already lived through hell. Lived _with it_ for a while. I’m sure the Devil’d be pleased I finally come home.”

The two of them laughed, and Grillby sparked brightly in the dim barroom. The light outside was getting long and golden, the evening rolling in, and with it the nightly chill. But for now, inside with an old friend, Grillby was warm. Warm until Gaster’s laughter died away, and a distant look etched itself into the lines of his skull, the lights of his eyes turning scattered and dim around the edges. And Grillby saw it then, the sure signs of trouble, leaking out onto the counter of his bar like the slow creep of a coming mist. It was as familiar as it was unsettling. Grillby thought briefly of the shotgun he kept under the counter.

“So, devil,” Grillby said, “You ain’t answered my question yet.”

That hat dipped just a might on Gaster’s head, hiding his face once more in shadow.

“What are you doing here? Doubt it’s just a happy accident you tumbled in _my_ bar in particular after...”

“Five years,” Gaster said darkly, “Since you cut out on me.”

A heavy silence draped across the two of them. There was magic and intention there, Grillby could taste it. Sour and bitter, the stings of regret and its ilk. Remnants of how bad their terms had been when he’d left. But there was no bite to it, no ill intent. 

“Gonna be honest with you Grillby, I walked in here still angry,” Gaster said finally, pushing his drink away as if it’d somehow gone stale, “But dammit if it ain’t good to see you again. You haven’t changed.”

“And you ain’t stopped dodgin’ questions.”

A smile lit Gaster’s face, crooked and tense, “You were hard to find.”

“That was intentional.”

“Not hard enough though,” there was a shift in Gaster’s tone, sharp, the easy-going drawl lifting out of his voice, “You remember the Higgins gang?”

Higgins. Grillby squinted thoughtfully at Gaster as the skeleton rolled himself a cigarette. Higgins. It sounded… familiar. But he couldn’t rightly place it.

“Cause they remember us,” Gaster continued, “Rather - they remember _you_.”

“You gonna get to the point with all this or am I gonna hafta wait ‘til they’re on my front porch t’ ask?”

“We run into them on the Central Pacific when it was new, after the territory’d laid tracks west of the mountains. They tried to bully us off the train. Salem Higgins was their head at the time.”

At the name ‘Salem’ the memory came rushing back crystal clear, a dam he’d bricked up in the back of his head springing loose. Salem Higgins, all dressed up like a gentleman robber, a six-shooter in each hand, his eyes lit up by engine sparks, his face a grimace full of soot.

Grillby blinked the image out of his head and said simply, “Humans don’t have nine lives.”

“No, but they have kin,” Gaster said, “And there’s a lot of Higginses headin’ thisaway ever since they got kicked out of Missouri. Did too much rough housing down there, sounds like. Killed a sheriff and one of his posse on their way after a bank robbery.”

Gaster took a breath from his cigarette, smoke curling between his teeth and snaking around the collar of his shirt, “They’re planning something big… I don’t know what. Probably trying to land a final score before they make a run for Wild Country.”

“How’d you find out alla this?”

“Got a wire asking me to be a part of the posse to take them in, since I was in the region - about two days after the shooting happened,” he cleared his throat uncomfortably, “So I poked around the town for a bit and trailed them thisaways. Stopped when I found out they’d dry-gulched* some poor bastard just because he was a fire. There’s not a lotta your types this side of the Mississippi.”

Grillby swore.

“Lit a shuck* right outta there and been tryin to find you ever since,” Gaster said, “I tried not to ask ‘round too much - didn’t want folks askin’ a bunch of questions and remembering too much when the Higgins gang comes callin’. But I figure they’ll come. ‘Specially once that track gets laid at the Fort.”

“What fool gang would go after a Fort?”

“A fool gang that’s twenty members strong and recruiting anyone that can hold a gun ready to die standin’ up* for some cash. And Grillby, they’ve got some dead shots with ‘em,” Gaster flicked his wrist, sending a nearby ashtray sliding within reach of his finished cigarette. He stubbed it out, muttering, “I’m tellin’ you, they’re plannin’ a big score, and they’re fixin’ to put up an army to get after it.”

Grillby picked up a new glass to clean, thinking long and hard on what Gaster had said. Finally he said, “Well… thank you for the warning I s’pose.”

“You can repay the favor,” Gaster stood and stretched his stiff joints, “The trip west spent up all the cash I had. I’m hurtin’ for a horse and a place to stay.”

“I’m sure the church could use a parson.”

“I’d burn up once I walked in the front doors, right in front of God and everyone.”

“Oh shut up.”

“S’true,” Gaster insisted, though there was a fine humor in his voice, “Be a shame to put a scorch in them floors just as soon as they got put down.”

“You could probably ask around the Dreemurr place,” Grillby finally relented, “They’ll be doing the roundup soon. All that stock out grazing’s gotta be roped and branded for the drive come summer. Most of the folks around town pitch in to help if they can, but Dreemurr’s got a lot of land. He normally hires a few wanderin’ hands to help out.”

For as much as he could with no flesh to speak of, Gaster flashed him a fierce grimace, “I ain’t run a drive my whole life.”

“No, but you can ride a horse, and I’ve seen you make use of a lasso,” Grillby flickered a smirk, “Even if y’ain’t good with it.”

Gaster scowled at the floor, drumming the counter impatiently with his spindly fingers. Then a bit meekly he asked, “You one of the folks that helps with the drive?”

“Sure as shit.”

“Think you can get me hired?”

“Bet I could get you a horse too. The Dreemurr’s like me.”

“Can’t imagine why. I’ve met por-kee-pines softer’n you.”

“You insult me one more time Mister Gaster,” Grillby threatened mightily, though there was a laugh catchin at the edge of his flame, “And I swear I’ll march you right over to that church you’re so scared of and light you on fire myself.”

Dramatic as a dime-store theater, Gaster whipped that hat off his boney head and said, “Now you just hold your temper there Mister Grillby sir, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. You know I think you’re just the most cuddliest pussy-cat this side of the Appalachian Mountains - why I bet they hold parades in your honor just as soon as you walk outside at least twice a week, sir!”

Grillby shoved Gaster hard in the shoulder, setting the skeleton into a rattling laugh that bounced off the walls of the empty bar, and was damn near infectious enough to send Grillby chuckling himself. 

“Now you better not make any mischief,” Grillby warned at length, his voice cutting sharp and stern, “I’ve got a reputation to keep around here.”

“Oh come on Grillby,” Gaster grinned, and for a moment Grillby truly thought the devil himself was smiling in the dark of his bar. Sure enough Gaster lied like he was, “I ain’t never made trouble a single day in my life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning Update: Forgot to put in all the definitions for those asterisks! Fixing now! Time for some cowboy lingo, eh? :D
> 
> Dry-gulch - an ambush with the intent to kill [because dry gulches were a convenient hiding place for that sorta thing].  
> Lit / light a shuck - to depart from somewhere fast, especially at night [lighting corn shucks as a light source].  
> Die standing up - being brave, more popularly from that one quote "I'd rather die standing than live on my knees."
> 
> And one I forgot for last chapter:  
> Riding shotgun - this one's a bit more popular knowledge, but everyone learns it at some point so! On a stagecoach in the west, normally they would hire hands [or, one of the passengers might volunteer] to ride beside the driver with a shotgun, ready to fight off bandits/robbers on the road.
> 
> You guys have no idea how hard it is not to slip into the worst southern accent imaginable every time I talk right now.


	3. The AD Brand of Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we take a trip to the Dreemurr Ranch

By the time morning broke bright and scarlet over the prairie, Grillby was already kicking around dust in his kitchen, and had been for some time. His bar would start to see customers in the evening - but that was hours away and not quite on his mind yet. He was much more concerned with makin a good impression on the Dreemurrs. Sure they liked him, but asking a man to take in a stranger and pay in advance for his work was a mighty big favor, and it didn’t hurt to butter them up a bit. And the Dreemurrs sure had a soft spot for those kids of theirs. Some folks might probably go so far as to call em spoiled - but those folks probably ain’t met the kids in person neither.

Now, Grillby wasn’t the _best_ at makin sweets and the like, but he knew a trick or two that would put most folks in a good mood. So he cooked himself a couple batches of honey candies for the kids and a pie for the missus - strawberry-rhubarb, which was her favorite of his. It was a bit expensive with the fresh ingredients being a bit hard to get ahold of, but if there was ever a time to make it, now seemed best. It crossed his mind to find something for Asgore himself, maybe pull down a bottle of something from his top shelf. But he knew the missus didn’t much agree with casual drinkin, and he’d rather not cause a ruckus.

Just past sun-up, Grillby started packing his handiwork away in a basket, placing everything as delicately as he could for the trip out to the ranch. It was about then that Gaster finally meandered himself into the bar, lookin like he slept in a barn the night before - which he likely had. Stray pieces of straw poked out of the seams and creases of his jacket, dappling the black of his coat with bits of bright white, and he walked with the tired shuffle of someone still half asleep.

Grillby flickered to himself a smirk and grabbed the coffee pot from where he’d set it boiling - Gaster never had been good with early rising. 

“Smells like heaven in here,” he yawned, nearly falling off his barstool as he slumped onto it, “Can I have some?”

Grillby slid him a glass of coffee from down the counter, and Gaster caught it, “You can have _coffee_. Anything else you want is goin’ on your tab ‘til you can pay it off.”

Well that sure woke him right up. Gaster flashed him a glare that could spook a rattlesnake, “Oh give me a break Grillby! I’ve already told you I got no cash left-”

“And I’m doin’ you a favor and scarin you up a job,” Grillby broke in, pouring his own coffee with no hurry, “That’s as far as my charity goes.”

Gaster glowered into his coffee cup, and Grillby softened a mite, “I ain’t expectin you to pay me back anytime soon. You got til the end of the season if you need it.”

“Oh yeah? Well maybe next time I’ll wait til the end of the season to tell you big news.”

“Quit your belly-achin’. You want some breakfast or not?”

At mention of food, Gaster got a sight more humble right quick. The two of them ate a quick breakfast of beans and toast, and then after makin sure the bar was marked as closed, Grillby led the two of them out to the town’s stable and up to a dark grey-dappled horse who looked mighty familiar to Gaster when he saw her.

“You’ve still got _Ash?”_

“She’s a good horse.”

At the sound of his voice, Ash perked up her ears in Gaster’s direction, lookin about as pleased as a horse could to see someone she ain’t seen in awhile. Grillby got her saddled and mounted up, offering a hand to help Gaster up behind him.

“Try not to fall off.”

“I’ve ridden behind you before, you know,” Gaster groused, though Grillby noticed with a flickered smirk that those spindly fingers had reached up to wrap around his waist anyway.

“Yeah, and you fell off before too,” Grillby sparked with a chuckle. He nodded to one of the passing townfolk as they shot him an odd look, likely wondering who this stranger was that he was trotting off with.

“There’s a world of difference b’tween _fallin_ off a horse and bein _shot_ off a horse.”

“You ate about the same amount of dust I reckon.”

“Oh shut up.”

Ash carried them out of town at a quick pace - probably glad for the fact that Gaster weighed nearly nothin’ - and into the bright clear morning. There was a bit of mist on the ground already burning up in the morning sunlight, and it seemed to Grillby like there wasn’t a cloud to be seen no matter which way he looked. Bright mornings like this lit a warm spark in him, somewhere deep down in the middle of his chest. A kind of aching feeling, like he missed the open sky - though he still saw it every day. And Gaster must’ve felt it stirrin in the elemental, ‘cause he kept his snark mighty quiet as they set off across the soft hills and plains. It was a kind of wanderlust, a longing to walk out into the horizon and keep going until the world ended. It was a dangerous kinda wonder that made you think even the Wild Country could be walked through if you tried hard enough.

But Grillby knew better. He'd known better for years, ever since he and Gaster split, and probably before that besides, though he'd never have admitted it then. So he shook his head and stowed the feeling away as deep as he could, and focused on the ranch he could finally spot off in the distance.

The AD-Ranch was a pretty humble affair all things considered. There was a corral, a stable, lodging for the hired hands and some barns and sheds for storage. Front and center on the property was a two-story ranch house, bigger than most folks’ homes around here and built by Asgore Dreemurr himself - or so Grillby had been told. He wasn’t around for when it was raised. The doorway was tall, and in fact the whole place seemed just a size too big, with a pair of massive rocking chairs out front, but Grillby had long grown used to that by now. 

Scattered about the ranch and lazing around in the early morning, Grillby counted five hands - two being those greenhorns he’d seen in his bar the evening before. He hailed a greeting as he approached the property, though he figured most of the folks around would recognize him anyway. Gaster had been speaking truth when he’d said there weren’t many fire elementals in this part of the country. Most of his types made out better in factories in the states back east. Hitching his horse, Grillby walked up to the front door and knocked. He wasn’t left waiting long.

Now, anyone who’s never met Asgore Dreemurr will be a sight intimidated by him when they see him for the first time - and this was no different for Gaster when that door swung open and out stepped likely one of the biggest monsters that twig of a skeleton had ever seen in his life. Asgore Dreemurr was one of what the Old World would’ve called Boss Monsters, bein that they were powerful creatures with powerful souls to match. They were few and far in between these days - having had a lot of strife with humans and monsters alike over the years and years all those creatures been ‘round the green earth, on account of how scary they can be when they get the mind to. And Asgore, with a pair of big curling horns that’d make a Longhorn shy, a massive barrel chest and arms like tree trunks, well, he was shaping up to be one of the scariest lookin monsters Gaster had ever seen. But upon seeing Grillby, basket in hand and his fire a bright yellow smile, well Asgore lit up with a toothy grin and a bellow of a laugh.

“Good morning Grillby! Come inside, Toriel’s just put down breakfast - Toriel! We’ve some guests, darlin. Get down a couple more plates.”

Grillby hung his hat on the rack just inside the door - standing on his tip-toes to reach the tall fixture, and Gaster followed suit, “You don’t gotta make a plate sir, we already-”

“No trouble at all! Join us for breakfast. And your friend - oh forgive me, I’m forgetting myself. Your name sir?”

The two introduced themselves, Asgore enveloping the stranger’s hand in his own massive paw as he shook it before leading the way into the dining room where the smell of bacon wafted in droves into the house beyond. Toriel - Asgore’s missus - was already setting a plate down for Grillby and Gaster to sit across from their kids, giving Gaster his second shock of the morning. Sittin together fightin over who got the first dibs on the meal was Asriel, a blooming little boss monster in his own right, and a human child, all freckle-faced with devil-red hair. The two of them settled down right quick at the sight of guests, the human catching them both up with a deep sorta stare that took in a whole lot more than most people was keen to.

Now, humans aren’t rare. In fact there’s a lot of places out west - certainly the wilder and more dangerous places - where there’s a sight more of them around than there is monsters. They’re hearty folk, heartier than most monsters by a long shot. However monsters and humans always had their outs with each other, wars and feuds going back and forth for ages. And while the outright scrappin had calmed itself in the past couple hundred years or so, you couldn’t rightly call the two groups friendly. So seein the Dreemurrs raisin a human kid right alongside their own? Well, it was strange to say the least, and Grillby noticed it was a mighty struggle from Gaster to keep from staring.

In hindsight, perhaps Grillby should’ve warned Gaster about the Dreemurr family’s odd layout. Too late now. 

“Good morning Mister Grillby!” Asriel chimed brightly as the elemental took his seat in one of the massive chairs - leaving Grillby's legs swinging like a kid's from how up they were from the floor, “Did you bring us anything?”

“Asriel, your manners,” Toriel tutted disapprovingly, to which the little monster cheesed her a toothy grin to mirror his Pa’s.

“The kid’s onto me right quick there ma’am,” Grillby chuckled, offering the basket to Toriel, “Though I s’pose it should wait until after breakfast.”

“Rhubarb pie,” Toriel smiled, but her expression was already turning mighty suspicious, "And candies for the kids. Watch yourself dear, he wants something."

"I'm sure he does," Asgore chuckled, a more business-like air creeping into him. He sat up a little straighter, and he looked down at Grillby sharp and keen, "What can I help you with, Grillby."

"I'd hate to bother you with business while you're eating your meal."

"The kids will have to learn what our business is about at some point,” he replied easily.

Grillby glanced at the pair of kids who seemed far more interested in who could get the last flapjack, but shrugged and spoke his piece anyway, “You’ve met my friend Gaster here. The two of us was thicker ‘n thieves a few years back, before fate sent us on our own ways, as it were. But he’s come ‘cross some hard country to find me again, and it’s put him on hard times. I was hopin’ you could hire him on.”

“Trouble is,” Gaster took up, not wanting Grillby to do all the speakin for him, “I ain’t got nothin to my name sir. So i’d be askin a mighty favor of you if you could lend me a horse, and be patient with me learnin the ropes.”

“You ever worked a roundup, son?”

“Not a day in my life, and that’s the truth of it.”

Asgore raised one of those bushy eyebrows of his, glancing hard in Grillby’s direction, “No wonder you were puttin’ on airs.”

“I ain’t a stranger to makin camp out in nowhere,” Gaster offered, “I can hunt and track well enough, and I’m willing to pull my fair share of work. I just need a little help gettin back on my feet.”

Now Asgore was a kind monster, but he wasn’t a fool. And he sat back in his chair and caught Gaster up in a long, hard sort of look. Studying him, like he could figure him out just by looking hard enough. Finally he said, “And how do I know you’re not just gonna take that horse of mine and ride off with it while I’m not looking?”

Gaster managed to get his mouth open before Grillby was speaking over top of him, “I don’t expect you to trust the word of a monster you’ve never met, but you can trust mine.”

“You’d vouch for him?”

“Yessir, and I’ll do you one better past that. I’ll help you train him on the range out here,” Grillby said, “If you were gonna ask my help again this year of course.”

“Well, hard to argue with that I s’pose,” Asgore hummed, and the edges of his business voice started to soften, “And it was mighty nice of you to bring somethin’ all the way out here for the kids and the missus.”

Asgore nodded in the direction of the corral outside, “Grillby, go help him find a horse. I’ll have some paperwork for you when you get back in - and be quick about it. Coffee’s getting cold.”

Grillby let the pair of them out back, flickering a smirk at the quiet sort of startled look Gaster couldn’t shake off. 

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“They owe you a favor or somethin?”

“Nah, they don’t do favors,” Grillby shrugged, “They’re the kind of folks that think if you’re good to most folks around you, they’ll repay it in kind. They’re not stupid. Asgore knows trouble when he sees it. But he also knows trouble picks favorites.”

“Now you just sound superstitious.”

Grillby flickered a devil of a smirk at Gaster, “Superstitious or not - the family ain’t been nothin but kind to me, and they ain’t had no house fires.”

“There’s that I s’pose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never really written for Asgore and co. before, but I gotta say the image of a mischievous little redhead and his crybaby brother working a roundup with a pair of idiot ex-boyfriends who don't know what they're doing is really growing on me.


	4. Coyote Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we do some cow-punching!

Gaster had done a sight of work in his life - only some of it honest - but he knew how to ride a horse, and that was about his only solace when two days later he and Grillby were trotting out into the middle of God’s country hunting cows. Though Grillby was a bit more at home when it came to the roundup and drive. Fact of of it was, the horses had far more cow sense than the two of them did - but at least Grillby had done this sort of thing a bit before. The objective was simple enough at least. 

See, cows have to eat, and when you own a big plot of land like this out in the middle of nowhere, it gets mighty hard to try and fence all that stock in someplace that can keep them all happy. So most times it was easier to just let them graze wherever they damn well felt like. Then twice a year, come the time for driving the beasts to market, you round them all up, brand all the calves and strays, and get them to the nearest buyin’ town. There’d been talk for awhile of gettin’ done with the drives altogether and just sending the livestock by train. But that was a heck of a lot of beef to get corralled, and tracks weren’t laid yet in half the places meat was needed. So drivin’ for now was the only good way of gettin’ it done. 

But before all of that - the countin and the drivin and the sellin - there was the roundup, where all the scattered stock had to be brought in. And in little ranch towns like this where all the money was in the cattle, well, a good bit of the town came out to help. If you weren’t tracking and roping, you were branding, or you were counting, or you were making food and drink for the people who were. It’s an event, a round-up is, and the whole community gets involved - because that’s what made the community to start with. And that meant even the local bartender would open his place later in the evening so he could lend a hand. Seeing’s how Grillby had come into town good with a horse and a rope and gun, well he was fine help to have. And Gaster, even as green as he was, was mighty handy to have around for his horse and gun sense, and his eye for tracks. Round-ups were dangerous. Far more than just the folks that own em are after the cows in the fields.

Danger or no, though, they had a job to do. And Grillby had them out at first light to work it - him feeling at home in Ash’s saddle, and Gaster looking mighty sharp on the buckskin he’d got off of Asgore. They started with a bit of scouting, running up and down the hills and gullies in search for any sign of livestock - and to be honest, reminded Grillby a mighty bit about old times when they was a sight closer. All the while Gaster whistled as they went, mostly broken pieces of hymns like “Blessed Assurance” and the like. When he was feeling adventurous he’d change their key, make them sound major or minor just to feel what it’d sound like.

It put a sort of ache in the back of Grillby’s soul, all nostalgic and hurtful, and he realized he hadn’t heard much music in the past five years since he and Gaster split. Gaster was a whistler, a singer, a talker. He was the kind of monster whose mind was always working in winding trails like up a mountain’s spine, and he talked like it too. Grillby was just quiet, and he was never more aware of how quiet he was than when he heard how _loud_ Gaster was, the kind of sweet-sounding loud that made him wish he’d keep filling the quiet in, like a river on a dark night. Like he could listen to Gaster for weeks, whistling and talking and singing, and he wouldn’t get weary of the noise. 

Grillby shook his head. _Cows_. They were looking for _cows_. They had a job to do. And he spurred Ash on a little faster just to spite himself.

They tracked their way across the horizon, eyes sharp for their quarry, Gaster’s whistling occasionally interrupted by his observations of the stuff around them. A stand of trees here, the smell of water coming from one direction, a parcel of tracks on fresh-grazed grass. And Grillby kept his eyes out further, watching the horizon lines, the distance. Force of habit set him looking for smoke and dust - the signs of stuff moving flat country. Old habits he’d all but forgotten until Gaster showed back up. It was a hell of a distraction.

“These tracks are leading down into that valley yonder,” Gaster hummed, throwing a glance at the noon sun as it beat down at them, “So what happens when we catch up with a bunch ‘a cows anyway?”

“We drive ‘em,” Grillby answered, his voice feeling rough for how quiet he’d been all morning, “You won’t hafta do much. I’ll get ‘em moving in the right direction and you’ll just help me keep ‘em in line.”

“We can drive by ourselves?”

“Valley that small could probably hide a dozen steers?” it was more a question to himself than to Gaster, “We can handle that.”

“You mean _you_ can handle that, since I got no idea what I’m doing.”

“Since when did you _ever_ know what you were doing?”

It was a small valley between a pair of hills, rich and green and the kind of pretty you’d see in a painting somewhere - the kind of country most people didn’t figure could really exist. Except the cows had found it, and they regarded the two riders with the kind of boredom that cows do. Most of these beasts were branded - save for a couple of calves Grillby spotted - which meant they’d done a roundup once or twice and knew what was coming next. Grillby covered up his face with his bandana and with a whoop and a whistle coaxed them into moving, the beasts responding sluggishly but obediently, kicking up dust and clods of dirt as they went. Over the ruckus Grillby instructed Gaster to stay to one side of the herd, keeping an eye on the beasts so no stragglers were left behind. And they drove, slowly. That was the thing about driving cattle - all the money was in how big they were, and if you ran them thin they weren’t worth much. 

About halfway back to the ranch they ran into a pair of riders also riding back with their own bunch of cattle, and together they worked their way back towards the AD-Ranch. It gave Grillby the chance to switch places with Gaster, managing the sides of the herd while Gaster ate dust in the back. Riding the back of the herd was a rough job. You spent all your time eatin the dirt the herd kicked up, and for folks with more to-do about their insides, humans especially, you got weasey by the end of the day. But it was also a good place to learn, and more experienced hands had a habit of putting the greener hands to work there.

It was gettin on into the afternoon by the time they made it back to the AD, and Gaster cut up beside Grillby, his black clothes dusted red and grey.

“Well, that wasn’t so hard.”

“You say that like we’re done.”

Gaster glanced in the direction of the sun, his smirk falling of his face, “You think we can find anything and bring it back by nightfall?”

“Not by nightfall,” Grillby shrugged, “But we can camp out there. You’re used to that sort of rough, right?”

Used to it, probably. But if looks could kill, Gaster sure was fixin’ to find out with the glare he threw in Grillby’s direction. All the elemental could do was laugh.

“Asgore should have some supplies we can take out,” Grillby instructed, nudging Ash in the direction of the corral to help out the folks working there, “Grab some coffee and somethin for breakfast tomorrow and we’ll hit the trail.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but he knew Gaster was doing as he was told. Another old habit risin up to the surface. 

Grillby helped cut the herd, steering the handful of unbranded stock into a seperate corral where he saw Asgore working, and in spite of himself he got distracted watchin. He had a cow tied up still, ready for a brand, but Asriel was makin quite the fuss about it. A right racket of protest and tears. Grillby thought he heard something like “I don’t wanna hurt the cow” in the mess in stammerings and stutterings. The kid kept his face buried in his paws, refusing to look up at his Dad or at the brand in the big monster’s hands, absolutely inconsolable.

“Asriel, this is a thing you got to learn son,” Asgore was sayin, his voice coaxing and low but Grillby could hear the impatience in it, “Now come on son, last season you said you’d be fine to do this. You promised me, remember?”

Grillby could see a war on Asgore’s face. Asgore was a patient monster, and he had an almighty soft spot for his kids. And there was a big part of that monster that wanted to just let Asriel go and get to work on somethin else. Surely the kid had dodged this particular chore for this long. But there were also some firm lines startin to draw themselves on Asgore’s brow, like he might finally put his foot down about something. And that was when that little red-head of his snatched the brand out of his hand and did it themselves. To be honest, Grillby hadn’t even noticed Asriel’s sibling standing there until just now, and it gave him a spark of surprise when the kid was suddenly moving.

“Chara!” Asriel shrieked, looking angry for all his crying, “Why did you do that?!”

Chara shrugged.

“Thank you for helping your brother,” Asgore sighed, gently taking the brand from Chara’s hand and getting around to untether the steer, “But he needs to learn this himself.”

Well, Asriel looked downright horrified as Asgore got a new calf hitched for a round two. And before Grillby could really think of what he was doing, he started walkin his horse over their direction.

“Mister Dreemurr sir, a word with you, if you don’t mind.”

Asgore turned to face him, Grillby nearly at his eye level even on horseback.

“Me ‘n Gaster was fixin to head out again tonight and see if we can’t get a head start on tomorrow. The kids ever spent the night out on the range?”

Grillby couldn’t tell if the sour look Asgore gave him was on account of him bein done with the kids, or because Asriel had managed to dodge branding for the second time in as many minutes. But that soft spot of his was already makin itself known, “I reckon they haven’t. Would you be willing to take them?”

“Sure,” Grillby flickered an easy smile, “It’ll be nice to have something small and loud to distract the coyotes when they come circlin close.”

“C-coyotes?” Asriel stammered, looking damn near like he was about to go to tears again.

“He’s just messin with you,” Asgore chuckled, a deep rumbling sort of noise that put most folks in the mind of thunder, “Go get saddled up.”

“But-!”

“Well, I s’pose I could just take Chara,” Grillby said, makin a show of looking thoughtful, “You know, that’s prob’ly a good idea. Then you can keep helpin your Dad with the branding here.”

Now that just about made all the fur on little Asriel’s head stick straight up. But before he could freeze up too bad, Chara put a freckled hand on Asriel’s arm and started tugging him off in the direction of their stables, where the Dreemurr’s kept their personal stock of horses.

“You’re mean as a rattlesnake, Grillby, scaring Azzy like that,” Asgore smirked, and then crossed his arms, “That boy’s gotta learn to have a spine.”

“Won’t do to have the kid grow up yellow,” Grillby said, “But he’s still got some time to learn. Besides, a few days out in the middle of nowhere with nothin’ but wildcats and coyotes will prob’ly make all the farm work look downright tame.”

“That’s true. I was a helluva lot braver the second time I had to deal with a bear than the first.”

“Shoot, what bear doesn’t take one look at you and try to find something kinder to eat?”

“A bear that’s mighty hungry I guess,” Asgore laughed, a booming sound that nearly spooked some of the livestock nearby. Then he sobered up a bit and said, “Take good care of my kids out there, Grillby.”

“Like they was my own kin,” Grillby reassured him. Then, figuring he was dismissed, he turned his horse in the direction of the bunkhouse to break the news to Gaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you engaged? Entertained? Feeling enriched by how much you're learning about cattle drives??? Or is that just me? [I'm actually not learning that much since I've read way too many westerns, but I'm very insecure about getting things wrong, as I've never written them before! So I'm sure that counts for something!]
> 
> Vocab for this chapter:  
> Cow sense - knowing what to do around cows! Normally a term used for horses  
> Green - new, as in greenhorns  
> Yellow - a coward


	5. Ankle-Biters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we do some complaining

“Sure, babysittin’. Don’t know what else I’d be doing,” Gaster whined for the hundredth time since they’d left the AD place, “Say, why don’t set me up with a sewing circle next?”

“Oh quit your howlin,” Grillby balled up the cigarette paper he’d been too exasperated to roll right and hucked it at Gaster, bouncing it off the side of his head, “Besides, if anyone is babysittin out here, it’s _me_ babysittin _you_. These kids know more about this work than you do. Now keep your nose on the trail before we get lost.”

The sun was getting low on the horizon, and while they’d found themselves a couple spots of tracks, they’d yet to actually run into the steers making them. Grillby wasn’t the best at tracking - anything off the obvious end of the spectrum got him confused pretty fast, and his eyesight wasn’t the best - so he had to take Gaster at his word that they were going the right direction as the light started fading. Meanwhile he kept on the lookout for a good place to make camp. 

Asriel and Chara trailed behind them, Asriel chatting up a nervous storm while Chara mostly just sat quietly and listened. Once in a while Grillby would hear a sharp sort of laugh from the kid’s direction, but they didn’t do much by the way of talking. Come to think of it, Grillby wasn’t quite sure he remembered what Chara’s voice sounded like. Some forgotten memory in the back of his head said he’d heard the kid talk before, but he had no idea when or why. For all he knew, Asriel did all the talking for them. He’d met a pair of twins like that once. The more ambitious of the two did all the talking, while his sister sat back all quiet-like until she got the mind to do something. Viperous people, those kind of folk were. You never knew quite what they was up to. Not that Grillby could really judge, given how he spoke less often than not when given the chance. But his was more from not havin much to say than it was from havin gears clickin in his head. Leastwise he thought so.

“Alright kids,” Grillby reigned in his horse, letting the Dreemurr kids ride up beside him, “Where we beddin’ down for the night?”

“U-u-uh,” Asriel was looking spooked again, being put on the spot of a sudden, “Can we not just stop anywhere?”

“Sure you can,” Gaster called from a bit further ahead on the trail, his eyes on the ground as he read sign there, “Why don’t we camp here, right out in the open where God and everyone can see us?”

“But… we’re not hiding from anything?”

“Not people maybe,” Grillby flashed Gaster a hell of a glare that went mostly ignored, “But the wind gets nasty at night. We’ll want some place with a little more shelter.”

“R… right,” Asriel looked around the group, and then cast his gaze out a bit further, making it pretty clear he hadn’t paid much attention to where they were this entire time, “Chara, do you have any ideas?”

Chara was riding before Asriel had finished his sentence, guiding their little odd-colored mare in the direction of a copse of trees nearby. Asriel followed after quickly, calling for Chara to wait up.

“ _Kids_.”

“Oh hush, Gaster,” Grillby flickered a frown, “You didn’t come out of the womb knowing what to do in the wilds.”

Gaster scoffed, “I didn’t need no babying to figure it out.”

“Some folks ain’t as smart as you.”

“I ain’t _smart_ , I just got common sense.”

Grillby rolled his eyes and, not having a mind for any more bitter conversation, rode after the kids. Chara had already staked their horse in a patch of grass to let the critter graze, and Asriel had started to follow suit.

“This’ll work as a windbreak,” Grillby called to them, “Chara you wanna gather us up some stuff to burn - the dryer the better. Makes less smoke like that. Asriel, you an’ me can get the fire going.”

They made camp in between three trees, Grillby trying not to chuckle at the general disappointment on the kid’s faces when they realized just how rough sleeping out in the wilds was. They’d only planned on being gone one night, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, so they’d brought no tents - only a couple of bed rolls and the tree canopy for shelter. When the wind took to howling that night, lettin’ loose a fine wail as it dipped through the surrounding hills, well they felt mighty small without a roof. Dinner was a shared can of beans and franks that Grillby was certain the kids might turn their noses at if it weren’t the only thing to eat. Not long after the sun had set over the horizon, both kids were curled up asleep. 

“And they didn’t even ask about sleepin in shifts,” Gaster tutted as he poured himself a cup of coffee, “These kids are sheltered.”

“They’ve never done this before.”

“How old are they? Thirteen?”

“Thereabouts I think,” Grillby sighed, rolling himself a cigarette and settling in sideways from the fire so the light wasn’t too bright in his face, “Older than some and younger than others learnin this stuff.”

“I’d been on my own for two years already.”

“Not everyone’s as special as you.”

“And the monster kid needs to grow a spine.”

“Keep your voice down,” Grillby sparked a scoff, “Your hackles’ been raised ever since these kids struck out with us. You'd think they killed your cousin or something."

"I hate kids."

"God in heaven - I wouldn't have guessed!"

"Oh shut up," Gaster glared, and with it Grillby felt the air come heavier with magic, "You _know_ how I feel about kids. I can't stand 'em."

"Scared of them, more like."

"I ain't scared-!"

"W. D. Gaster," Grillby cut him off, his voice low and venomous, "You threaten me one more time with that magic of yours, and I might just do something about it."

There was a change in Grillby just then that was very on purpose. All he knew of it was that a piece in his chest got hotter, and that his body suddenly got all stiff, ready to snap. The warm campfire colors that he saw reflecting on things turned sharp and blue. But he'd been told from the outside lookin' in, it looked scary. That suddenly his flame got all knife-pointed and hot, and he spoke with smoke like some sort of hell critter. It was a tone of voice and a look of intent he didn't use much anymore, but it shut Gaster up right quick, seeings as he wasn't much used to being on the receiving end of it.

Both of them were stiff and quiet for a minute, all barbed wire and broken glass, Grillby feeling like hot knives and Gaster looking tense around the eyes, color flickering back there were the gears clickin in his brain met his soul. But Gaster was smarter than to get in a fight with Grillby, and all that bitter magic dropped itself out of the air. 

"I didn't mean nothin' by it," he muttered, "Just don't like it, is all."

"Well I don't like you griping all the time, and I managed just fine this afternoon," Grillby responded, that look in his fire softening up and the tenseness sort of slipping out of his shoulders, "You just gotta be patient for a few weeks. Then you can get outta here."

Gaster crouched by the fire, lookin all brooding and thoughtful, that vulture back in his posture. But Grillby decided he'd had enough of the skeleton for the night and said, "Get some sleep. I'll keep a watch on if you want. Wake you up around one or two."

"Don't bother. Can't image there's much out here after us, and I sleep light anyways."

“Make sure no scary ankle-biters get you in the middle of the night,” Grillby jabbed one final time, trying in about the worst way he could think of to lighten the mood a bit. Gaster sneered and bedded down without another word. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I did not know Viperous was a word until I wrote it down and Google Docs didn't do the squiggly "you spelled it wrong!" thing that I always ignore. 
> 
> And I do not think there's any odd lingo / vocab in this one! So hurray for that!  
> I'm trying to space out my chapters a bit to every other day since I kinda feel like I'm spamming you guys. But I'll have you know I'm halfway through chapter 8, which either means this is gonna be rad and i'll blow through this story [like i'm hoping for] or i'll write myself into a corner and drop it [like just about everything else I've ever done]. I'm rooting for the former!


	6. Criminently

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gaster should never be allowed around kids

Grillby was the first one up with the morning, because he always was. There was some clock tickin inside his brain that rung alarms when the birdsong started up just before dawn. He had coffee brewing and some cornbread baking on the hot embers, and it was the warm smell that brought the kids crawling out of their bed rolls and over to the fire. Gaster still slept, lounging between two trees with his hat pulled low over his face, likely choosing to ignore the morning talk.

“You kids sleep okay?”

“My back hurts,” Asriel whined, “And I’m still sleepy.”

Chara nodded emphatically in agreement. 

“You’ll get used to it,” Grillby reassured them, “Now eat up. I ain’t as good a cook as your Ma, but it’ll do.”

The kids ate a miserable breakfast, looking a little low in spirits at the thought of working all day after a bad night of sleep. But they would learn, just like everyone else did, that this was hard work worth doing.

Gaster didn’t stir until they were starting to tear down camp, and then he finally, lethargically started getting his kit together. He put on his hat and with a yawn pulled on one of his boots, and Grillby caught him looking pretty thoughtful at the second. The lights of his eyes kinda narrowed on his second boot, and then at the kids who were busy rolling up their bedding. And then a wide, sinister looking grin kinda cut itself across his teeth. Gaster pulled on his second boot, and then he let out a holler so loud and sudden it damn near spooked their horses picketed on the far side of the campsite.

_“A snake! A snake!! Criminently!”_

Now both those kids was up and scared and huddled together, staring at Gaster all wide-eyed as he writhed all over the ground, making a show of throwing off his boot and clutching at his leg.

“A snake! Oh God it hurts - was it poisoned? It was poisoned! Oh God I’m _dying.”_

“Mister Grillby!” Asriel shrieked, his voice somehow a whole octave higher than it normally was, “Mister Grillby what do we _do?”_

Now there was a beat where Grillby didn’t know if he should put an end to this stupid charade or not. It was mighty early in the morning to be scaring the sense out of the Dreemurr kids. But then again he didn’t notice the Dreemurr kids had checked their boots before they’d put them on this morning, and he supposed this was a teachable moment of a kind.

“Hell, I don’t know green magic, and I ain’t about to suck out that poison,” Grillby shook his head slowly, “Looks like he’s doomed.”

“He’s _doomed?”_

Asriel looked downright beside himself with worry, his fur all standing on end, and he clung to Chara like they was some kind of life raft that would make the trouble better. And while Chara still looked mighty shocked, there was a keen sort of glint in their eye that said they were puzzling something out.

Not that that put Gaster off any. He had always been one of those elaborate sort of acting types - Grillby always sorta figured he’d had a past life as a showman somewhere. And he just stretched out on the ground all swooning and tragic, bemoaning his ‘awful, terrible snakebite,’ and his ‘precious life cut short’. Then Chara leaned close and whispered something into Asriel’s big floppy ears, and all the fear wiped itself off the small boss monster’s face, replaced by flat suspicion.

“Hey yeah, wait a tick,” Asriel agreed to whatever quiet observation Chara had whispered, “You’re all _bone_. How can a snake-?”

Asriel didn’t even have to finish before Gaster’s elaborate fit had turned into cackling laughter. He lay there on the ground, just about rolling from how hard he was laughing.

“Christ- _sakes_ I had you two _going!”_

Grillby flickered a smirk and rolled his eyes before crossing over and nudging Gaster in the ribs with the toe of his boot, “Alright you had your laugh. Pull yourself together, you damn idiot. And hurry up and eat breakfast.”

Then to the kids he added, “Make sure you check your boots when you put ‘em on in the morning. You never know what sorta critter’s curled up inside.”

The sun wasn’t up more than an hour before they hit the trail, Gaster once again riding point, whistling a tune as he went, his spirits high. Grillby couldn’t place the name of the song rightly in his mind, though he thought it was familiar. Probably some hymn he didn’t know the name of.

The morning proved a bit more rewarding for them than the night before, Gaster pointing out places where one or two scattered head of beef was wandering, and Grillby and the kids slowly rounding them up. How scattered they were concerned Grillby a bit - normally cows liked to bunch up together for safety and all. And he voiced that to Gaster after bringing back three cows to their slowly growing bunch. Gaster sort of just shrugged the comment off, but there was a cagey sort of look about him, like he was thinkin on something he wasn’t quite ready to speak aloud yet. And Grillby let him stew. Gaster wasn’t the lyin sort, so if he weren’t ready to talk on a thing, well, he was likely still puttin it together.

About noon after they had a good bunch of stock together, Grillby turned the group around and started the slow drive back to the Dreemurr’s place, keeping a wary eye on the sky.

“You think we’ll make it back tonight?” Asriel asked, picking up on the elemental’s worrying looks. At length, Grillby shook his head.

“Not if we wanna keep a good pace.”

“Aw _man_ ,” Asriel whined, “I wanted to sleep in my own bed tonight!”

“I’m more worried about your Dad,” Grillby hummed, “I only told him I was taking you kids out for one night. I might have to send one of you ahead of us so he knows.”

“Send one of us? A-alone?” Asriel stammered, that squirrelly fidget creeping back into his voice, “What if we get lost?”

“Asriel, you’ve done roundups before, son. You know this country.”

“But I’ve never been on it _alone_ before!”

Grillby cast his gaze over in Chara’s direction, and the look in the kid’s eyes showed they were more than willing to go just to keep Asriel comfortable - or perhaps ‘cause they knew going home early meant sleeping in a bed instead of on the hard ground. Grillby cut about in his mind, trying to figure which kid would be best to send. He was sure both could make it just fine, but coaxing Asriel into going by hisself would probably do the kid good, if it weren’t such a difficult thing to do. He was still thinking on it when Gaster piped up from further ahead.

“I ain’t sure splittin up is such a great idea.”

Gaster had stopped his horse on a ridge up ahead, off to the side a bit from the trail they were driving on. He’d dismounted and now sat on the balls of his feet, keeping a careful eye on the ground. Grillby flickered himself a frown and, instructing the kids to keep the herd going, he trotted over to join him.

“What you got?”

“Shod horses,” Gaster said, his voice dropping low and thoughtful, “Came through yesterday it looks like.”

“Sure they’re not from our outfit?”

“That’s what I kinda wondered, but this ain’t the first time I found them, and they don’t seem to be coming from the ranch. Ranch is out eastward. These keep coming in from the south and going back out again.”

Grillby cast his gaze out to the horizon, looking long and hard for any of those tell-tale signs of movement, “Figure they’re worth following up on?”

“How much trouble you want me to make?”

“I’d rather it be none.”

Gaster mounted back up again, some of his spirit back as he flashed Grillby that snake-caging grin, “You’re gettin boring in your old age.”

“We got two kids with us,” Grillby reminded him.

“Fair enough,” Gaster checked his gun belt, “I’ll be back.”

And he rode off down the ridge, his whistling falling silent. Grillby watched him go for a bit, feeling that old nostalgia wriggle around his chest again as he watched Gaster’s back get small with distance. Then he turned his horse back to the kids.

“I-I thought Mister Gaster said we shouldn’t be splitting up?” Asriel asked, doing his damnedest not to look worried, though the fur was rising up on his heck a bit.

“He’s just checking something for us,” Grillby said, trying to keep his voice reassuring, but Chara shot him a sharp look like they were catching wind of something, so he continued, “You kids know what to do if something bad happens out here?”

“B-bad?”

“Sure,” Grillby kept his voice calm and easy, “Don’t hurt to have a back-up plan. Say we run into a pack of wolves or some rustlers or something and stuff gets unfriendly. I want you two to cut and run.”

Asriel nodded quickly, looking a bit too spooked to say much without stuttering. But Chara frowned and shook their head once.

“If something goes wrong out here, someone’s gotta tell your Pa so he can do something about it,” Grillby said sternly, “ ‘sides, neither of you kids know your way around a gun yet, do you?”

This he knew was true. For one thing, Toriel was right squeamish about firearms, and didn’t like them around the kids. And she likely didn’t see much sense in the kids learning them now that they was older, since Asriel had his magic, and he and Chara were always so close together. For another, neither of the kids had a firearm on their person, though Chara had a wicked looking knife their Pa had got them for their most recent birthday. And that knife seemed to be on their mind now, since their hand was itching mighty close to where it was kept on their belt.

“That ain’t a throwing knife, and leastways you can’t throw faster than most men can shoot - unless you catch them unawares, and we ain’t in the business of dry-gulching folks,” Grillby warned them, his voice cutting harsh, “You’ll both do us the best good getting help. Anyways, you’re small and fast, and you’ve got good horses. Reckon you could outrun just about anything that’d chase you. 

“So if anything goes south and me and Gaster get in a bind, you light a shuck outta here like you’re in the highest stakes horse race you ever saw. Now you two keep this stock on the trail - I’ll ride point ‘til Gaster gets back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criminently has got to be my favorite replacement expletive ever. It's _at least_ 8% cooler than tarnation. 
> 
> This may be common knowledge depending on where you live, but yes it was [and sometimes still is] common practice to shake out your coat/jacket/hat/shoes/ really just about anything you didn't go to sleep in before you put it on in the morning, for fear something crawled in while you were sleeping and it'd bite you when you put the thing on. That whole "There's a snake in my boot!" catch phrase of Sheriff Woody was/is a valid concern. See also: scorpions and spiders. It's mostly a thing I've heard hikers deal with, but I know when my Dad lived in California as a kid it was still a thing he was told to do before putting his shoes on in the morning.
> 
> Shod horses - probably self-explanatory but a shod horse is one with horseshoes on. This is a thing I've ripped from the westerns I've read, and did a little bit of research on to make sure. But generally speaking, if a horse didn't have horseshoes, it was either a wild horse or it was owned by Native Americans / First Nations riders. But see also: horses were traded between westerners and tribes, so I feel like that's somewhat situational, so once again, this is generally speaking. It's kinda hard to verify information since the documentation I've found either doesn't mention horseshoeing and only talks about how cool Indian Horses were [which, they are/were very very cool] or does talk about horseshoeing but lathers it in so much racism because it was written in the 1800s that I can't take half of it seriously.  
> Anyway, I wrote it in because I thought it made sense as an observation, and because I've read it before.
> 
> [Ah the mental gymnastics of writing for a genre that is historically steeped in racism/sexism/hyper-masculine white male escapism.]


	7. Old Time Religion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gaster become a God-fearing man

Gaster followed the trail he’d picked up, feeling freer for the faster pace now that he was away from the herd. He’d known herding was tedious work, but if he’d known it was so damn _slow_ \- hell, it might’ve been worth it to just steal a horse and get out of town. Didn’t help that he had those brats barking all day - or the one, anyway. Constantly stuttering on about one thing or another. It grated on his nerves, though not half as much as it did when the human kid just… _stared_. Felt like being watched by a mountain lion, riding near that kid, even aside from the strangeness of the them being human among monster kin. What were the Dreemurrs _thinking?_

But for now that was behind him, and Gaster was free to ride as quick and rough as he pleased, just so long as he didn’t wear his horse too thin, or get himself spotted by whoever it was he was tailing. He didn’t much care for the look of these tracks.

They broke off a good bunch, scattering and picking back up again at intervals, like they was trying awful hard not to be followed - it was a sight harder to follow one or two horses than a whole group of ‘em. But with every break and reassembly, it unnerved Gaster to count a new horse in the group each time, like they was weaving around and picking up members. Members left waitin’ places on purpose. Now, Gaster didn’t know much about cattle thieves and the like, but he’d always been under they impression they weren’t the smartest folk around. So he wasn’t inclined to think all this bobbing and weaving was the work of rustlers trying to grab quick cash on the range. 

Gaster found himself thinking about the Higgins gang, the reason he’d run so far north in the first place, and he wondered if this might be that outfit. No, he didn’t think it should be. He’d run up ahead of them looking for Grillby, and he didn’t figure they shouldda caught up yet. Suppose they were out there looking for fires, he was sure he’d laid a subtle enough trail they would’ve had trouble finding _his_ fire in particular.

Grillby. God the monster had changed. He was so… _tame_. Downright _domestic_. Running a bar, helpin the local rancher, playing nice with a couple of privileged kids. He was all soft edges and slow speakin, and he spoke so free and honest. Hell, if Grillby hadn’t called Gaster out by name the evening he’d walked into his bar, he might be convinced he’d stumbled on some long lost twin of the fire he’d known before, one that’d lived a softer life and wanted for softer things. To be honest, he’d been right surprised Grillby hadn’t run him off for fear he’d ruin his perfect little life. He sure looked like he was setting up to last night. Gaster had been a fool to think all those sharp edges had been worn off completely. Last night, _that_ was the Grillby that Gaster remembered. Soft voice like an adder’s hiss, fire all billowing color, that smoke curling in wicked rivers when he spoke. 

A sleeping wolf waking up to bare its fangs before shuttin its eyes again. It’d sent a shiver down Gaster’s spine seeing it. And what a stupid thing to get riled up over. 

Kids. His quiet, peaceful life in the middle of a dusty town on the edge of civilization. It was all so _small_ , so insignificant. Where had Grillby’s _dreams_ gone? All the talk they’d used to do about being free and running out to Wild Country to see all the edges of the world together? He’d traded it all for _this_.

“He knows I hate kids,” Gaster griped aloud to his horse, which ignored him in favor of watching its step down a gravel hillside.

Gaster followed the trail to a stream where even from afar off he could tell a camp had been laid. There was an old fire - kicked over but the ashes were still warm, and built under a stand of trees so the smoke could disperse more - and an area down the bank where several horses had been staked. He could make out the circles of cropped grass where the critters had been grazing, and the holes in the ground where the pegs had tethered them. There were low areas where bed rolls had been laid out, and Gaster even found old grounds where someone had poured out a coffee pot. Whoever they were, they didn’t expect much resistance way out here.

Where the horses had been tethered, Gaster searched around to see which way the riders had rode out - and found it difficult. The way he saw it, they all must’ve split in different directions, a few of them pairing up before splitting further along and he lost their trail completely. Whoever they were, they sure as hell knew what they was doing. He couldn’t tell for sure, but he wagered there was well over ten horses out here at one point. There was a sinking in his soul, and the more and more he read, the worse it sank. There were ten riders out here somewhere, all makin sure they weren’t seen or followed. That was more than enough to ambush a couple of herders out rounding up stock. And for what purpose? Why bother out here on the Dreemurr’s ranch, and them being so close to Fort Chase? Any rustler should be scared the Dreemurr’s would call the militia down, or at least hire some of the boys up there to keep watch over his herd. Gaster sure worried about how close the Fort was, and no one here even knew who he was. Actually, knowing there was ten or more riders out here, scattered to the wind and probably coming back, he was feeling sort of worried being all by his lonesome.

Discouraged after losing yet another trail as it scattered off in a random direction, Gaster picked his way back to the camp, hoping to pick up his own trail and follow it back the way he’d come. He trotted his horse down the riverbank, turned past a copse of trees and pulled up short. There was a lone rider standing in the remains of the broken-up campsite, but more worrying than that was the glint of sun off the barrel of a rifle trained in his direction. And there was a whole lot of killing intent seeping out of that rider, Gaster felt it all when their eyes met.

Now, Gaster was a quick thinker, and right there he figured he had a couple of options. The first being he could reach for his six-shooter and pray it cleared leather before that rider got off his shot. He could turn back through the trees he’d come through and run like the devil was after him, hopin all the while he didn’t run headlong into more riders and get shot. But in his experience, it was a hell of a lot easier not to get shot if no triggers were pulled - which meant maybe a little bit of improvising was the better way to go.

“Oh, well howdy there brother!” he pitched his voice up a bit, remembering every nervous, weaselly idiot he’d ever met in his life, “Sorry part’ner, didn’t mean to spook you. I don’t mean no harm.”

He held his hands up away from his sides to show there was nothing in them, “If I’d known there was someone still at the camp here, well I would’da announced myself so’s you’d know I was comin’ in. You’ll have to excuse me my bad manners.”

There was a tense pause, but Gaster thought he saw some of the tension relax out of the man’s shoulders as he said, “What are you doing here, stranger?”

“Why, I’m jus’ lookin for some folk who might know where I am! I’m awful lost,” Gaster wiped his brow and made a show of looking to one side, like he was trying to find a landmark, “Had a feller send me out this-a-ways cuz he found some poor son who needed his last rights read. Said he wouldn’t make it back to town - sorry, I’m the new parson over at the trading post yonder, Deadwood? I’m not sure I mentioned that. You heard of it?”

Slowly, the rider nodded.

“Anyway,” Gaster continued, throwing in a nervous laugh for good measure, “I was told some poor kid got laid up workin the drive out here, and it’s a real shame about it. Said he wouldn’t make it back into town. So they’s just asked me to come on out to see him. And fool that I am I thought I could make it all by myself. I shouldda known better mister, ‘cept that I sure hate to be an inconvenience, and the boys out here work awful hard, you know? Anyhow I found the camp here and thought maybe it was some of the boys with the roundup, and I just ‘bout figured I’d found what I was lookin fer, ‘cept I can’t track all that well and I keep losing the sign. You wouldn’t happen to know where the boys went, would you? I’d hate to miss the poor feller, you know?”

The rider by now had relaxed his grip completely on the rifle, setting it across his lap as he waited for Gaster to finish. There was a look like disgust curling up his mustache, but it seemed for the moment he’d bought Gaster’s charade.

“You’re gonna get yourself kilt out here parson. You outta be more careful,” he said, with the kind of lilting drawl that suggested he just might be the thing doing the killing. Gaster dutifully ignored the threat, dug too deep into his idiot facade and not fixing to let up soon. Though he let his right hand lower just a bit, ready to draw his gun or summon magic if he needed to.

“Oh I _know_ , brother, I _know_. There’s wildcats and brown bears and all sorts of angry critters ‘round these parts. Heck, me an’ my horse just barely got out of the way of a rattlesnake couple miles back. That ol’ Devil’s always tryin’ to hinder God’s good work. But I swore an oath, _sir_ an _oath_ when I picked up my Bible that I was gonna help all them fellers that called on me, and bless me if I ain’t gonna foller it through. Please sir, if you could just direct me-” Gaster started his horse walking, steering slightly to the side of the rider so he could pass, “-like I said, I hate to be an inconvenience. You don’t gotta take me anywheres. If you’d just point me in the right direction I’ll be on my way-”

The stranger chewed on that for a moment, deciding on something, before finally pointing Gaster in a direction - and with a thousand ‘thank yous’ and ‘bless yous’ Gaster spurred his horse down the river. When he was sure he was out of sightline and earshot, Gaster nudged his horse into the shallows of the stream, then crossed. He spent some time walking his horse down the river, sure to turn off in a direction like he was lost before coming back to the river again. He spent a good hour like that, leaving a fool trail like some lost idiot just trying to stay on track. Then he cut hard towards the east back in the direction he’d left Grillby in, swearing under his breath. As he came up the high ridge at the top of a hill he looked back in the direction of the scattered camp and the rider he’d left behind there. While he couldn’t see the camp itself, he could see a thin trail of smoke as someone made up the camp again.

Not fixing to have a rifle trained on him for the second time that day, Gaster lit out of there, making a few more wide circles across the hills until he picked up the trail of the herd they’d pushed through that morning, and he rode hard to catch up. There was a skip in his soul as he followed the trail, realizing that at some point an extra pair of horseshoes had added their track to those of the herd. There was a magic building in the back of his throat, and a hard line writing itself on his brow. Everything better be in one piece when he caught up, that was for damn sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _He’s got a King James edition  
>  With all of the words of Christ in red  
> And he reads the inscription  
> Every night when he goes to bed  
> And he goes fishing  
> For sinnin' men like Jesus said  
> Got an old time conviction  
> Keeps the bodies in the shed_
> 
> Old Time Religion by Parker Miller


	8. Rattlesnake Venom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have a bit of a misunderstanding.

Grillby was starting to get ansty, casting wary glances at the setting sun when Gaster finally came cantering down the trail, lookin stern and in an almighty hurry. Almost as soon as the herd came into view, the skeleton slowed his horse to a walk, sittin back in his saddle as if he’d just let out the breath he’d been holding the past three miles.

“I thought I told you not to make any trouble,” Grillby called to him when he was in earshot, “Horse’s tethered over yonder if you wanna see to that first.”

Gaster cast a glance around, not bothering to come down off his horse. Surprising Grillby, he asked, “Where’s the kids?”

“I sent them up to their Dad’s. Asriel wouldn’t go alone, but I couldn’t see just letting him have his way and stayin in camp.”

“You’re fixin to get yourself killed.”

“I’m _fixin_ to tie you to a tree if you don’t settle.”

“There’s an outfit out there Grillby,” Gaster finally said, fidgeting with his gun belt as if it could do him any good to check it, “At least ten riders, maybe more.”

“They see you?”

“I met one of them - pulled a rifle on me. Though I’m sure there was probably others watchin in the trees somewhere. I convinced him I was just some idiot and he sent me on my way.”

“Prob’ly didn’t take much convincing.”

Gaster bristled up at that, all sparks of magic fizzlin up, “ _Damnit_ Grillby, this is serious! Gave me directions on how to get myself killed in the Wild Country. He sent me westward. If I was anyone else-”

“But you’re not. You’re fine,” Grillby reassured him, finally giving in to Gaster’s fit, “They follow you back here?”

“I don’t reckon so. But Grillby, one of their riders was tailin you. They cut off the trail about a mile back.”

Now the way Grillby saw it, even for all his brushing off, all of that was trouble news. But the worst of it was there bein a rider trailing them through the middle of nowhere, and cutting loose at about the time he’d told the kids to split. He told Gaster as much, and the skeleton swore. Grillby was up on his feet already, snapping the fire out with the wave of his hand. 

“Where you goin?”

“To get those kids,” Grillby said, “And you’re comin with me. I can’t track for shit after dark.”

“What about the herd?”

“Leave ‘em, they won’t scatter far. And if they do, we’ll know who did it.”

So the two of them mounted up - Gaster apologizing to his buckskin, who was lookin mighty impatient to be hittin the trail again for another hard ride. But Gaster was lighter than most kids riding, let alone most folks in general, so the beast wasn’t too burdened having him on board. Gaster stopped Grillby just before they moved out, holding out a black neckerchief in his direction. Another one of those nostalgic gestures.

“Might wanna cover up some more of your flame,” Gaster warned, “If they’re the Higgins lot, they’ll be lookin out for you.”

“Damn I hope not,” Grillby sighed, his voice all smoke, “I kinda like Deadwood.”

“They ain’t gonna dust you if I can help it.”

“You know, I’m not sure that’s what I’m scared of,” Grillby tied the handkerchief around his neck and pulled it up his face, shading some of his light, “Reckon the Dreemurrs won’t like me around so much if I kill some feller in front of their kids?”

Gaster treated him to an annoyed laugh, tense and short, “Sheltered and spoilt, the lot of them.”

They hit the trail, Gaster leading the way through the coming dark, and Grillby feeling a bit like they was running from the sun with their backs turned to it and their shadows stretched out like twisted fingers towards the darker horizon. The kids had been in some hurry when they’d left camp, and they’d trotted their horses a ways. But they were also scared of gettin lost, so they slowed up after about half a mile. It was around this switch in their tracks that a new track met theirs, some rider comin in from out in the brush somewhere to follow their trail. And then two more from the opposite side. When Gaster called this out, Grillby felt a spike of boiling catch up in his soul, angry and feelin like they should be moving a good pace faster. But they didn’t know how fast they’d need to ride once they caught up with those kids. It’d help no one to exhaust their horses now, and Ash was already tired from walkin all day.

They passed through a small stretch of woods, Gaster callin out that the three riders had split off here, “Looks like they're gettin set up for an ambush.”

Grillby cursed and checked his rifle in its holster on his saddle, “Gaster, you think you could circle ‘round the other side of ‘em?”

“I’m sure I can manage.”

“Gaster,” Grillby’s voice was dead serious, and it made Gaster stop and look at him, “I’m countin on you.”

Gaster looked away from him, all bristles and hard edges, and muttered, “Well that ain’t even fair,” before cantering off into the dark after a sign only he could read.

Grillby turned back to the trail they’d been following and rode on, hoping it stayed as obvious as it had before. The kids had cut through the easiest country they could find, probably hoping for faster passage before night got on. Now it was still light enough to see, but the sunset colors were clinging to the far edges of the horizon, the sun having sunk beneath the world’s edge, and Grillby didn’t fancy meetin strangers in the dark.

When he broke past the trees he was met with a small valley between two hills, and far up ahead of him he spotted the kids, movin slow, Asriel just chatterin up a storm. Like there wasn’t some sort of danger waitin on them down the track a ways. But Grillby was relieved he’d found them before anyone else had. He cantered up to them, only halfway remembering to pull the neckerchief down from his face. Chara heard him comin first, turnin sideways in the saddle to figure out who was comin up on them. They looked mighty confused when Grillby came rushin over looking spark-wild and talking, smoke.

“Kids we’ve got trouble.”

“Wh-what’s going on?”

Grillby’s rifle was already out of the scabbard and in hand, if for no other reason than to know it was ready if he needed it, and he stopped just past the kids, hoping he was fixed between them and the riders he was sure were coming, “You two remember what I told you about cutting and running if something went wrong?”

“Y-yeah but-!”

“This is what’s going to happen,” Grillby said, leaving no room for questions or arguing, his voice dropping low so it wouldn’t carry, “You two an’ me are gonna walk to the head of this valley here, and as soon as we’re on open field you’re gonna let those horses run just as fast as they wanna go.”

“Mister Grillby,” Asriel looked downright terrified, his eyes open wide and his little paws shaking on the reins, “Why are we running?”

“We get home, I’ll tell you,” Grillby looked at Chara and said firmly, “Make sure your brother don’t freeze up, you hear?”

Looking a bit shaken themselves, lips pursed in a tight frown, Chara nodded. They stared back the direction Grillby had come, waiting for some mess to come charging after them. Feeling his soul tight and nervous in the center of his chest, Grillby led them down the valley, “Stay close.”

That valley was dreadful quiet as they picked their way through it, nothing but the sound of their horses’ hooves and the soft creaks of their saddles. Grillby felt keyed up, all sparks and hot fire, a beacon in the fast fading light, waiting to get shot at. But outside of the sparks and the spools of smoke he kept breathing, he did all he could to look like he weren’t bothered none. The kids were scared enough. They didn’t need their only safety gettin spooked and makin things worse. 

He didn’t know when, maybe halfway down the valley trail that he felt eyes on him, sharp and cold like a boot scuffing over his grave. It sent a prickle over his arms, gooseflesh, as close as he could get to hair standing on end. And there was a mighty intent behind it. Sometimes being a monster and havin your soul facin forward had its perks. Humans couldn’t feel intent nearly so strong. Made them easy to lie to, if you knew how. But intent, harsh and strong and rolling off strong souls, a monster felt it like a hand on a pulse, like the heavy charge before a lightning strike. Intent this sour tasted to Grillby like the metal in blood, like lead melting in fire. 

Trouble.

Three horses detached themselves from the dark shadow of the hillside right at the mouth of that little valley, and on those horses were three riders. In the fading light Grillby saw the glint of metal. He motioned for the kids to stop, and scowling he walked a few more paces before coming to a halt as well. 

“Can we help you gentlemen?” Grillby called out to them, tightening his grip on the rifle in his lap. 

“Sure can,” the riders fanned out a bit in the middle of the road, one of them standing a little forward of the others, and he was the speaker. Grillby cursed the bad lighting and his own shit eyesight that it kept him from making out facial features well. But his horse was all black with a white mask, “We was lookin to have a word with those kids of yours, if you don’t mind.”

“In my experience, not much good is said when folks are lookin to have a word with loaded guns.”

“You got enough ‘experience’ to keep three rifles talkin against your one, mister?”

Grillby squared his shoulders a bit, stiff creeping up his spine. In his chest he felt that hot coal burning, the fire around his fingertips turning corpse blue. There was a hitch in that rolling intent he felt off the three riders he stood in front of.

“Better question is,” Grillby said, his voice all dark and low, “You shoot me stranger, you think that lead’ll melt?”

The man looked back at the two riders he’d rode in with.

“If it don’t, I’m gunnin for you first and I figure I’d probably get two shots off before my dust scatters. And if it does, well, I’d say I’m bulletproof, and all three of you won’t be much trouble for me.”

Behind him, Grillby thought he heard Asriel whimper nervously, and a soft hiss from Chara when they shushed him.

“I’m in a gambling mood. How ‘bout you boys?”

“Gamblin? Well that’s not very Christian of you,” the three riders turned quick in their saddles, looking back at Gaster who’d come up behind them, quiet as a ghost, “Though I s’pose three guns against one ain’t very Christian either.”

“Shit, Tom, ain’t that the parson you sent off earlier?”

Tom was the middle rider, the one with the white-faced horse, and his voice was gruff and snarly when he said, “Sure is.”

Gaster beamed at them, the color in his eyes all bright with magic. He set a nasally lilt to his voice and mocked, “Well I just got a bit turned around there, brother. But I found myself in the end, if you catch my meaning. Good Lord put me just where I was needed.”

Speaking normally, he continued, “I want all three of you gentlemen to drop them rifles if you please, and step your horses aside so we can be on our way.”

“Way I see it,” Tom said, “There’s still three of us against the two of you.”

Now, Gaster’s smile kinda faded a bit, the lights of his eyes vanishing beneath the brim of his hat as he dropped his gaze down. It was mighty dark now, the sky bruising black and blue. So when Gaster’s magic started creeping up in the air, all colored and bright, well it was downright scary. There was a sound like rattlesnakes, and the crackling of dry bones, and the air behind Gaster’s shoulders started to writhe and seethe as snake bones wound up into being. They were see-through and ghostly, and dripping intent like rattlesnake venom so sharp it made Gaster’s horse shift beneath him, nervous at the feel of it so close. And with clicks and snaps six snake jaws opened up, blue smoke dancing ‘round their long fangs as a deep white magic started sparking back where their throats would be. 

“Three against two,” Gaster said, “I like those odds.”

They had themselves a standstill, and it was so quiet between the gathered riders you could’ve heard a twig snap. If he were honest with himself, Grillby would say he’d stopped breathing. But he knew above all else, humans were scared of magic, and from the way their intent wavered, he knew these boys was scared through. With Gaster standing there, those snake jaws wide and ready at his back, well that was a powerful image. They didn’t know that wild magic had just as good a chance of hitting Grillby and the kids if Gaster let it fly, and they didn’t know how much it took out of him just to hold them in place up there over his shoulders. 

“I think,” Tom said slowly, finally, “We’ve had a bit of a misunderstanding.”

Then, making sure Gaster could plainly see his hands as he moved, Tom lowered his rifle to the ground beside his horse. The two riders with him did the same. Then they obediently stepped to the side of the trail. 

Grillby had the kids ride past first, buying himself a few more seconds to train his own rifle on the riders, checkin them for movement. Then he followed after, holstering his rifle on his saddle. He passed Gaster, and he could see his magic losing its color around the edges, and getting all hazy where he struggled to keep it up. So he was probably a bit too angry when he saw the kids looking at him all wide-eyed like they didn’t know what to do.

“What did I say when we got to the end of the trail? Get running!” he yelled at them, “ _Now.”_

Well neither of them stuck around for another good reason. They went galloping off into the dark hard in the direction of their Dad’s ranch, and as soon as they were off Gaster dropped his magic and followed, Grillby fast beside him.

“You alright?”

“Oh I’d better be,” Gaster coughed, leaning hard forward to help his horse run, “Just promise me I faint off this horse you’ll come back for me at some point.”

Grillby was working on a reply when something wailed sharp just over his shoulder, sending a shock right through him. And then sounding after he heard the roll of a gunshot. Grillby swore and pulled his horse hard to the right away from Gaster’s, hearing the whiff of a shot to the side of his head.

“Grillby! Your fire!”

“Keep heading after the kids,” Grillby ordered him, more concerned that Gaster’d get hit while they were aiming at the sparks in his flame, “I’ll catch up.”

Now there was a reason why Grillby loved working with Ash. They’d had several years to get used to each other, and the horse had a good sense about him and his magic, and she could turn on a dime and give you five cents to spare. So the two of them rounded on the gunshots trailing them, Grillby trusting the beast to keep her footing in the dark. And he waited to catch the sight of the sparks of one of those rifles shooting in his direction.

Finally he caught sight of it, and as soon as he did he snapped his fingers, sending a line of firefly-thin sparks chasing after the little flash of light. The next time that gun fired, he heard the resounding _crack!_ as the shell in the barrel exploded, splintering the rifle apart at the seams, and trailing after that, the scream of a man whose face had been right up against that rifle as he’d aimed. The gunfire stopped right quick, either the two other men gettin wise to what would happen if Grillby spotted their guns firing again, or tending to the busted up face of whichever one he’d caught. 

Taking his chance, Grillby wheeled Ash around and rode off, this time wisely tying up that handkerchief about his face and pulling the brim of his hat down low, making his light harder to see as he flickered away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert that one soundtrack that always plays in westerns right before a shootout, you know the one]


	9. Blood like Cinders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we bleed a little

It didn’t take him long to catch up to Gaster. The skeleton hadn’t ridden far until he’d been forced to walk his horse, afraid he’d pass out and fall out of the saddle. He was slumping so bad where he sat, Grillby halfway wondered if maybe he’d gotten shot while Grillby was trying to keep the rifles occupied. But he managed a wan sorta smile when Grillby pulled up beside him and sat a little straighter, and he didn’t seem to be leaking magic or hurting in any way. 

“I thought this was s’posed to be a boring job,” Gaster said.

“So I’ve been told,” Grillby agreed before asking, “You alright, Gaster?”

“I’m mighty tired,” the skeleton admitted, a sigh rattling its way up from the depths of his chest, “I’ve been riding hard all day, and that was a lot of magic.”

“Well you saved us a hell of a lot of trouble and bloodshed, so thank you for that.”

“Aw, you would’ve been fine. All I did was save you some face,” Gaster laughed, but it was an exhausted sound, bitter almost, if Grillby read it like that, “They would’ve made a reach for those rifles and you’d’ve shown ‘em why you don’t keep your ammo by the campfire. You know one of those fellers had a bandolier? You’d think they’d know better than to have one of those while hunting a fire.”

“That’s the trouble, Gaster, they wasn’t hunting me,” Grillby said, a frown turnin his flame off-colors, “They were after the kids.”

“What the hell kind of outlaw goes after kids? They’re  _ kids  _ for Chrissakes.”

“Don’t know,” Grillby said, “But it worries me.”

They rode a bit further in silence, until the lights of the Dreemurr ranch started coming into view. Even from the distance Grillby could see a hubbub kickin up. The kids must’ve made it in and woke up the whole place.

“The snakes were new,” Grillby said, and Gaster kinda started as though he’d fallen asleep in the saddle and Grillby’s voice woke him up.

“You like that parlor trick?” Gaster treated him to one of those mischief-making smiles, even if it dragged a bit from how tired he was, “Learned that off a naga down in Ysleta after she lost a game of poker.”

“Ysleta?  _ Texas?”  _ Grillby asked, and Gaster started laughing, “What the  _ hell  _ were you doing in  _ Texas?” _

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Gaster cracked a wide grin, “I was thinkin of calling it the Gaster Blaster.”

Now, Gaster had a habit of naming his magic far-reachin and ridiculous things, but this just might’ve been the most ridiculous name Grillby had ever heard the skeleton come up with - which also made him figure the name was perfect.

They’d reached the outskirts of the ranch by now, and Asgore was looking mighty scary with a shotgun toy-sized in those bear paws of his, and his fur all bristled like an angry wolf. Grillby hollered out to him, makin sure he and Gaster didn’t get mistaken for something dangerous and get themselves shot just as they’d reached safety. Two of Asgore’s cowhands were with him, and all three of them lowered their guns - and for Asgore and the cat-monster cowhand beside him, their magic - to let the two dust-beaten monsters ride in. Grillby swung out of the saddle and damn near caught Gaster as he half-fainted out of his.

“You’re burnin me,” Gaster muttered when Grillby looped his arm around his shoulders, helpin him stand up while Asgore came rushin over.

“I ain’t hot enough to burn you.”

“You’ve got holes in you then.”

It was only then that Grillby felt a stinging in the side of his neck where that first rifle shot had ripped so close to him. Putting a hand up to feel there it came away slick, and looking down at the tips of his fingers he saw the molten core of his insides puddled up there. He came aware of a burnin sort of smell and frowned as he realized he’d bled enough to singe the collar of his shirt.

“They  _ shot  _ me,” Grillby said, and Gaster laughed at how offended he sounded, saying, “Didn’t you know, that’s what guns is for?” 

Then lower, under his breath and dark, Grillby thought he heard Gaster snarl, “I’ll kill them.”

“Is someone hurt?” Asgore’s voice nearly boomed at them, “You said someone’s been shot?”

“Just a graze, Mister Dreemurr,” Grillby explained, passing off Gaster to the big monster so he couldn’t scorch him anymore, “Don’t know who was luckier - the man for hitting me, or me 'cause he missed. Gaster’s plum tuckered outta magic though, and about to sleep on his feet I think.”

“We’ll get him to his bunk. You go see the Missus, she’s got healing magic,” Asgore said, his voice all sharp and stern to leave no questions. 

Grillby did as he was told, keeping his hand clutched tight to the graze on his neck to keep from bleeding scorch marks onto the floor of the Dreemurr’s home - though he wasn’t bleedin all that much. Give his body time he’d likely patch up all his own, but he knew Asgore worried. Inside the homestead, Asriel was a mess of blubbers and tears, and both he and Chara were caught up in Toriel’s arms as she held them close, shushing them and making sure they were alright. It was a sweet sight, and Grillby was loathe to make them part on his account. So he stood sort of awkward in the doorway, shifting on his feet, trying to figure out how he was supposed to interrupt. Chara noticed him first, likely ‘cause they heard him come in. They glanced in his direction and then whispered something to Toriel, who stood when she saw him.

“Grillby dear, I’m sorry I didn’t see you come in.”

“Sorry to disturb ma’am but I-”

“Oh! Dear you’re hurt,” she blustered, looking right offended he hadn’t spoken up sooner. Moving quick into the bedroom she said, “You have a seat. I’ll be right back with my needle.”

Grillby clamored into one of their chairs, still keeping a careful grip on the side of his neck. The snarp smell of burning cloth was still heavy on him, and he sighed knowing he’d probably have to patch his shirt later. Some of the drops had singed on his shoulder, burning a couple fine cinder holes. Both the Dreemurr kids watched him, Asriel trying his best to stop crying where he stood.

Chara surprised him then by speaking, their little voice a raspy sort of whisper, “You can bleed?”

It didn’t strike Grillby as an odd question. Most folks seemed to figure he was fire and all fire and nothing else. He shrugged stiffly, “Sorta.”

Now both kids were watching him, a weird sort of morbid curiosity that Grillby had felt before. Though both of them look sorta scared and sheepish. Well, he figured the easiest way to stop being scared of something was if you knew what it was, so he said, “Wanna see?”

Asriel shook his head no right quick, but Chara paused a long moment before finally creeping over.

“Chara!” Asriel warned.

“It’s fine,” Grillby chuckled, “Just don’t touch nothin’. I burn.”

He held his hand out to Chara as the kid came closer, showing them the odd liquid that clung to his fingers. It was a deep orange, something that reminded Grillby of honey if you looked at it in the right light, and it glowed soft like embers. There was an obvious heat to it, even to Grillby himself. It stayed hotter than his flame did most of the time, unless he was really whipped up about something.

“I’m not all flesh-n-bone like you and your brother,” Grillby explained to Chara as the kid looked down cautiously at his hand, “I’m kinda fire and skin, with a lot of this stuff underneath. I figure it’s what keeps me burning. I get hit hard enough with something sometimes it just sorta leaks, like when you get a scrape.”

To Chara’s credit, the kid looked absolutely fascinated. Grillby hadn’t been too almighty close with a lot of humans in his life, but he’d seen that kinda mystified look before. Humans were curious folk; they liked figuring out how stuff worked. And monsters and their weird happenings were some of the kinda thing they got the most bright-eyed over. Grillby never much understood it himself, but he didn’t rightly mind it either. Asriel too started to mosey his way over, kinda curious to see what the fuss was about, though he didn’t get nearly so close to him as Chara did - they had already shifted their attention from Grillby’s hand to the little nick in the side of his neck. It was a dark red around the edges of the tear, and that beading up of golden color was slowly seeping there.

“Huh,” Chara said finally, “Cool.”

“Yeah, it’s sorta interesting I guess.”

Chara stepped back away from him, looking self-conscious of a sudden as they thought about something. There was a question they were on the edge of asking, and after a minute they finally got the gumption to ask, “Have you ever bled, like, a lot?”

“Chara,” Asriel hissed, “You don’t just  _ ask  _ people that!”

Now when Grillby didn’t answer right away, Chara’s eyes sorta dropped to their shoes, like they were ashamed of asking. But it wasn’t ‘cause he was uncomfortable that Grillby didn’t answer - not rightly anyway. He was thinking hard about how he was gonna phrase what he was gonna say, and how much he was gonna tell.

“Yeah, once,” Grillby said, startling both the kids by answering, “Before I moved up here I used to do a lot of uh... traveling... down south. It’s a sight bit rougher down there than it is up here sometimes.”

The two kids looked up to him, and it was Asriel who asked, somewhat cautiously, “W-what happened?”

“Got in a bar fight,” Grillby admitted, “It was uh, mostly my fault, if I’m speakin honestly. Got shot twice. Didn’t notice until I started smellin an awful lot of smoke, and then I figured out I was on the ground and stuff was catchin’ fire.”

People were running and screaming. And the guy he’d shot first was trying to stagger away, but his leg was done in good. And Grillby was watching the fire catch dry saloon boards and eat its way up the stair bannister he’d fallen beside. And that man was screamin when his leg gave out and his clothes caught fire. And all around Grillby was a pool of cinders and honey, keeping him warm even though his body was starting to feel almighty cold. And upstairs he could hear folks shouting as smoke sifted up through the floor, and they were caught between the fire on the bannister and the smoke in their rooms. And he’d opened his mouth to call for help, but there was a lump of led in the center of his chest so the noise came out all funny and choked-

Grillby’s gaze refocused of a sudden when a drawer snapped closed hard in the other room. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped talking, or that his gaze had dropped off onto the wall somewhere. Toriel emerged from the bedroom looking triumphant, a magic needle shimmering in her paw.

“Anyway,” Grillby’s voice caught odd in his throat, and he had to clear it before finishing, “It happened a long time ago and I don’t much recommend trying it for yourself. I heal easier than most folks.”

“Kids, give us some space please,” Toriel hummed, brushing past them to kneel by Grillby’s side, “I’ll have you patched up in a moment.”

“Thank you Miss Toriel.”

“It’s the least I could do,” she said, brushing off his thanks, “Now hold still, this might sting a bit.”

In truth, Grillby hardly felt the needle when it worked itself across his core, but the healing felt sweet and the sting on his neck died off right quick. It only took one or two passes of the shimmering green thread before he was healed up enough to stop bleeding, but Toriel gave him two more stitches just to be sure. By the time she’d finished, Asgore lumbered into the house and ushered the kids to bed, and he poured them a couple cups of stale coffee before, inevitably, asking what had happened. And Grillby told him. He told him about finding the scattered cattle, and how it seemed suspicious, and the tracks Gaster kept finding all day. He told Asgore about the rifleman Gaster had met, and how they’d gotten separated from the kids, and how Gaster had swooped in to save them.

“I’m right sorry about it Mister Dreemurr,” Grillby said when he’d finished recounting everything, “I shouldn’t have sent those kids off on their own, but at the time I didn’t have much reason to think they’d be in any trouble.”

“Well from the sounds of things I should be thanking you,” Asgore said, though his face was all grim with concern, “It was a right blessing you convinced me to hire Gaster on.”

“I suppose he’s handy to have around when things get rough,” Grillby smiled thinly.

“So are you,” Asgore’s voice was stern, “Takes a lot of courage to go riding up against three men, especially knowing they’d let you ride off if you just gave them what you want.”

Grillby hesitated, and then he said, “I’m not sure they were gonna.”

“What do you mean?”

Grillby chewed on his lip a minute, thinking. He glanced over at Toriel, who seemed to be making some sort of food for them in the kitchen - and likely listening in as well. Finally he dropped his voice and said, “You remember when I first rode into town, and you said you’d ask no questions just as long as I did no harm.”

Asgore got sort of still at that, like he might be holding his breath. He nodded.

“Sir, this might be one of those things you weren’t asking questions about. I’ve left a lot of trouble behind me, but sometimes it catches up.”

“Your Gaster a part of all this trouble?”

“Not in the way you’re probably thinking.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Well, Grillby wanted to. There were a mighty lot of things he wanted to let go of right then and there, burn it all out of him and have it clear. But he didn’t know what Gaster had been up to in the last five years. He didn’t know how much he’d left behind him, and how much was creeping up close. And after saving his life tonight, and all the stuff they’d been through when they’d run together - well he’d hate to see Gaster come to harm just ‘cause he started running his mouth. And fact of it was, Asgore had a lot of friends at Fort Chase. The kind of friends who didn’t cotton to people like Grillby, even five years free of trouble, let alone folks like Gaster who ran closer to hell.

“I can’t.”

“Grillby,” Asgore said, and his voice had that sort of dangerous intent that folks got when they thought they had something to protect, “You realize my children are in danger because of this.”

“That’s got nothing to do with us,” Grillby said quickly, “Not - I mean -” he passed a hand over the flames of his brow, nearly knocking his hat off in the process. Finally he relented a bit, “If they’re who we think they are - which they might not be - we’ve had a run in with them once. I can’t - I can’t tell you what it was over. But it didn’t end friendly. Anyway, I figured I’d left them on my backtrail, and I think for a while I did. Then they started heading this direction, and if what Gaster says is true they’re kinda hunting after me as they’re going.”

Toriel was sounding mighty still in the kitchen, whatever she was making long forgotten as she’d stopped to listen. 

“They’re here for something else - Gaster came up to figure out why, ‘cause he figured it’ll be bad. He had no way of knowing they would be passing through your land. I don’t know what they want with you or your kin, but you’ve got to believe me, Asgore. I’m not of a mind to be putin’ you in danger. If I could fix this by riding out of town,” Grillby splayed his hands out kind of helpless in front of him, “Well, I would.”

That being said, all Grillby could do was sit there all quiet and small while Asgore thought it over. And in that moment, Asgore looked just about the scariest Grillby figured he’d ever looked. There was a tenseness around his eyes, and an anger deep behind him, the kind of anger that springs up when you’ve got a lot to lose and you’re standing right in front of what you figure wants to take it. The kind of angry that gets folks killed if they’re scared enough to follow through with it. It was an angry Grillby was well familiar with. It bristled up inside him a few times in his life, but more often than not he’s seen it in the faces of other people staring him down. Asgore’s intent was bunched up around his horns like a thundercloud, and the fur on his shoulders was all stuck up, and Grillby thought it’d be an awful shame if Asgore hurt him right after Toriel had patched him up.

Maybe it was that logic, or a compassion much deeper, that made Toriel come out of the kitchen. She was her own kind of protective and angry, but her temper was one that focused itself on paying in kind, and things like honor and dignity. Not the sort of hellfire protectiveness that Asgore always seemed to have swirling around the back of his soul.

“Asgore Dreemurr,” Toriel snapped, and the big monster flinched like she’d hit him, “You’re not thinking about doing harm to these monsters after they just saved our kids, are you?”

Now Asgore stood up all cautious and slow, because he wasn’t of a mind to go intimidating his wife just ‘cause they disagreed, “I’m thinking about our kids now.”

“Grillby has been nothing but a helping hand ever since he showed up in Deadwood,” Toriel said, her tone the sort of sharp that would cut through steel if you let it, “He’s helped with the round-up every season. He helped rebuild Esther’s place after it caught fire last spring, and he rode for two days to bring back Warren’s dust when the poor kid’s horse threw him. And not only did he stand in between our sons and three rifles, but Gaster risked his life and exhausted himself making sure no one got killed.”

Now Toriel’s fur was all bristled up, and her hands were balled into fists on her hips like she was chastising the kids for breaking some poor fool’s window. And much to Grillby’s own amazement, Asgore was making down, looking mighty ashamed of the previous anger he’d been holding.

“You outta be thanking these boys, because without them, our kids-,” Toriel’s voice got all tense and she looked away from her husband, like she might cry. But she didn’t. Instead she huffed out a breath and she said, “Grillby, I’m sorry you’ve had to sit through my husband’s rash thinking. Don’t hold it against him please, tonight had us scared half to dust.”

“I wouldn’t think of it ma’am,” Grillby said, feeling downright awkward to be sitting between the spatting couple, and knowing full well they were spatting about him, “Listen, I don’t want to cause any grief-”

“ _ Cause?  _ Grillby dear, you  _ saved  _ us a great deal of grief tonight,” Toriel reassured him, her face getting softer, and looking mighty tired, “There’s a bed in the bunkhouse with the other hands if you need it. Dear, you look exhausted. Why don’t you turn in for the night?”

Now, Grillby wasn’t one to ignore a hint, or a way out of an awkward situation when it was handed to him. Thanking her he hurried out of the house, the sound of Toriel and Asgore’s soft speaking chasing him into the night where the wind was kicking itself up. He was feeling all mixed up inside, like he was guilty and scared, but there was also a whole lot of relief the night had turned out the way it had. He wasn’t sure if he’d sleep well that night, or if he’d stay awake thinking ‘til dawn broke, but either way he was glad for the bed when he sunk in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always figured Asgore had like, a temper. Not like a "i'm gonna fly off the handle at any moment" kind of temper, but like a slow burn, "once I finally get riled up not much can stop me" kinda temper. And the 'not much' that could stop him was Toriel, because she had a similar temper but was Much Louder about when it was starting to rile up.
> 
> Also I've been in the habit of not posting a chapter until I finish a new one on my like, little buffer-y thing, but the chapter I'm on has me kinda stumped so I'm posting this anyway as a way to kinda light a fire beneath my feet. Because goddamn it I really badly wanna finish this in one quick sitting just to prove I can - and also to keep me from getting Dark Souls Stunlocked every time I want what I'm writing to Be Better. Write it anyway! It's fanfiction for heck's sakes!! People will forgive it if it doesn't match your incredibly over-the-top standards for character interaction!!


	10. Kicked in the Door to Someday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we practice some good 'ol fashioned fake-it-till-you-make-it.

The roundup continued because outlaws or not, it was work that needed done. And for awhile it seemed the men they’d run into were content to lay low and not rouse any more attention - at least in part because Asgore hired more security for the roundup, and for his property. In addition to the five hands he’d hired, and the handful of volunteers from town like Grillby, he had six men patrolling around his wide range of property with the instruction to shoot any cattle thieves they saw on sight - and take note of any other suspicious characters they might see around the property. There were a few times where someone reported spotting one or two riders off in the far distance, or seeing a trail dip onto the property before dodging out again, but the main presence of the gang of men was gone. Asgore Dreemurr himself would mount up on that massive draft horse of his and do walks out with his cowhands, offering the extra protection of an angry boss monster with a shotgun in his saddle. And still, it was quiet.

Of course, for a week the kids weren’t allowed to go too far out from the house, under the careful watch of their Ma, who in all honesty scared Grillby sometimes more than Asgore himself did. He’d known a good deal of womenfolk who squared up to bears and mountain lions to keep their kids safe, and he was pretty sure any fool who got between Toriel and her kids would be dead six ways to Sunday. But after a week and a half with little more than a glance of trouble on the property, the kids managed to find their way back in the saddle and helping the other cowhands work - albeit only when accompanied by at least two other hands, and only if the hands were gathering stock somewhere closer to the house. 

The kids had taken a shine to Gaster and Grillby - much to Gaster’s bellyaching - and so more than one occasion the four of them ended out on the range together, though Grillby made sure the kids were always well on their way home before nightfall came, and always escorted. It never hurt to be too careful, and he didn’t like how quiet the range had gotten. It seemed mighty suspicious for the outlaws to make a move like theirs only to vanish again.

They were resting by a stream one afternoon, Gaster teaching Asriel how to read a track in the grass down the way a bit, and Grillby took the chance to rest his and Chara’s horses for a spell. Gaster and Asriel had been gone for maybe twenty minutes, and Grillby could tell Chara was chewing on an idea, burning slowly on it like a coal at the bottom of the campfire. Finally Chara looked at him, and asked in that soft voice of theirs, “Grillby, can you teach me to shoot?”

Now it was Grillby’s turn to chew on that, and while he hesitated Chara said, “Mom won’t let Dad teach us. She says Asriel has magic so… we don’t need to know. But I don’t have magic.”

“Well, kid you’ve got a point,” Grillby nodded, “But do y’know how much trouble I’ll get into if your Ma finds out I went against her wishes?”

“That’s only if Mom finds out,” Chara pointed out.

“What makes you think your brother won’t tell her?”

Well Chara looked mighty crestfallen at that, and Grillby couldn’t really blame them. Asriel seemed like the squirrely, tattle-tale sort. But Grillby had already started making up his mind about something, and he crossed his arms.

“S’pose Asriel probably wouldn’t tell if we convinced him to learn too?”

Chara lit right up at that, getting excited as Grillby got his rifle down from its holster and some shells. He set them up a target - a fallen over tree stump down the way a bit - and got to showing them how to load the gun, and how to hold it. Chara was quick on the uptake, and excited to learn, which helped. They lined up their first shot, Grillby helping them figure out where to look on the sight, and after a nervous couple of breaths, they pulled the trigger - and Grillby chuckled when Chara stumbled back into him when the recoil kicked their shoulder.

“You okay kid?”

Chara looked mighty flustered to have almost lost their footing over a gunshot, but they nodded they were okay.

“Well, let’s go see if you hit somethin’, come on.”

The two of them walked down their makeshift range, Chara flashing a broad grin when they spotted a hole cracked in the stump about a hand’s breadth from the center.

“Hey, not bad. We’ll make a Sheriff outta you yet,” Grillby chuckled, “You wanna try again?”

Chara fired a few more shots, a bit more prepared now for how the rifle worked - though disappointed that none of their shots came so close to where they were aiming than the first one had. But Grillby did his best to reassure them, explaining that the first shot was always the best.

“Your body doesn’t know what it’s getting in to,” Grillby explained to them, after one of their shots missed completely and they were looking mighty discouraged, “With the first shot, you’re just squeezing the trigger to see what happens. After it knows what that kick feels like,” Grillby tensed himself up, stiff as a board, “You start bracing up. Heck, you probably don’t even notice. And when you do that, you start trying to anticipate what that kick’s gonna feel like, and your shots go off. So we’re gonna teach you to relax. Let them miss. Just breathe, aim, and shoot.”

Two more rounds and Gaster and Asriel meandered their way back, Asriel looking absolutely _mortified_ upon finding out their sibling was the source of all the racket. But before they could get one word in, Gaster asked if Asriel wanted to try, and both the boys were standing side-by-side, learning how to fire rifles. Asriel was downright scared of the thing when Gaster passed it to him the first time, like he was scared the ol' Winchester might come alive and bite him. But after a bit of coaxing, Asy started to figure out it wasn't so bad, learning how to use a gun. Hell, the kids even started to look like they was having fun after a bit. Gaster and Grillby stood behind them several paces, every once in a while chipping in some encouragement, or a correction on how they were holding or aiming.

After one of the kids’ rounds of shots, after they put their rifles down and walked over to that poor stump they’d been shooting at, Gaster flashed Grillby a lazy sort of smirk.

“You remember when we would practice together?”

“I was always better with a rifle than you were,” Grillby chuckled.

“Now that ain’t fair. You know I didn’t own a rifle till later.”

Grillby shrugged, “You picked up side-irons right quick.”

“They’re better to use.”

“Easier, more like.”

“Oh yeah?” Gaster flashed him one of those dangerous smiles, “If they’re so easy how come you never got good with ‘em?”

“Because some of us don’t wanna look like an outlaw when they’re walking around the place,” Grillby slipped his feet out wide and set his arms out to the sides, mocking a quick-draw stance, “This town ain’t got room for two idjits with handguns, I say!”

Gaster shoved him playfully, “Oh you shut up! My ‘idjit handguns’ have saved you more’n once.”

“Only ‘cause a rifle’s not allowed in a restaurant.”

“Awh, wee lamb had to leave his rifle at the door,” Gaster purred mockingly, “Too big and bad to hide in your duster?”

“At least one of us can hit a target from two hundred yards.”

“Only if you can see that far, sparks for breath.”

Now Grillby was starting to burn hotter, all riled up and determined, “I can so see that far.”

“Sure you can, sharpshooter.”

“Kids!” Grillby startled Gaster by suddenly shouting, and the two of them turned to see the kids hadn’t been shooting for a hot minute, instead watching the two monsters argue with curious glee, “I need one of them rifles back if you don’t mind.”

“Sure thing, Mister Grillby,” Asriel said with far more enthusiasm than Grillby figured the kid could have in him, and handed back the rifle he’d been practicing with. Then Grillby turned to Gaster and scowled, “Alright Wing-Dingus, pick me a target.”

“Okay trickshot,” the two of them faced down their range, Gaster crossing his arms over Grillby’s off-shoulder and letting out a thoughtful whistle before pointing, “That birch tree. See the eye on the side there.”

“That ain’t two hundred yards.”

“We’re getting warmed up. Now go on.”

Well Grillby pulled that rifle up to his shoulder and looked down the sight, taking his time, and Gaster didn’t rush him. He just sort of waited until that gun barked and bucked against Grillby’s shoulder.

“Huh, nice shootin.”

“Pick me another target.”

Gaster let out a thoughtful _tsk_ noise, “Okay, you see that sapling down there?”

Grillby squinted a bit from the distance, aimed, and shot. When the sapling jerked from the impact, both Chara and Asriel let out a cheer. 

“Alright then,” Gaster hummed, finally quitting his lean on Grillby’s shoulder to stand up straight. He put his hands on his sides and scanned the range in front of them before finally pointing, “You see that rock way out there? The white one?”

Now, if Grillby were to be completely honest, he’d have to admit defeat and say no, he didn’t see the rock ‘way out there, the white one’. He saw a lot of fuzzy shapes that were grass, and a couple fuzzy shapes that were trees. And way, _way_ out there he saw a couple white spots that he could reasonably assume _at least one of which_ was a rock. But he couldn’t see what the hell Gaster was pointing at, and a couple blurry shapes are pretty hard to aim for. Grillby wasn’t admitting defeat though. This had turned into an issue of pride, and he wasn’t about to let it go. So he aimed, and he waited until he figured he was still enough. He breathed out a slow breath and halfway through, pulled the trigger.

In the distance, there was a small spray of sparks.

 _“Woah!”_ Asriel crowed, “You hit it!”

Grillby couldn’t stop himself from letting out a relieved laugh.

“You couldn’t see a damn thing you were shooting at could you?”

“You need to watch your language around these kids.”

“I can’t believe it,” Gaster insisted, “You _really_ couldn’t see it.”

“I can see it,” Grillby returned, getting a bit defensive, “ ‘S just not all sharp is all. I can still see the colors.”

“Could you see _any_ of those?”

“I saw all of them!”

“How bad’s your eyesight gotten, old man?”

“I’m not old!” Grillby nearly shouted, wheeling on Gaster, his flame getting hotter, “And my eyesight is _fine!_ I’d like to see you do better!”

“Okay, okay, cool it down,” Gaster stepped back away from him, spelling the bite of smoke on his clothes, “I bow to your superior rifle skills, Marksman Grillby.”

“You’re really good with a rifle,” Asriel chipped in sorta lamely, looking nervous to see Grillby so riled up, “Did your Dad teach you how to do that?”

Grillby flashed Gaster one last glare before answering, “Some of it. Most of it just comes with practice. You ever strike out on your own, you gotta be able to hunt for yourself, or defend yourself. Necessity teaches best.”

“You read that out of a book somewhere?”

“Oh shut up Gaster.”

“Can you show us how to use those next?” Chara asked, pointing at Gaster. The skeleton watched them sort of puzzled for a second, and then glanced down at his gunbelt, to the pair of six-shooters holstered there. 

“Nah, I think we’ve pushed our luck too much as is,” Grillby said before any of them could get a word in edgewise, though he could fool himself into thinking Gaster looked relieved to not have to come up with his own excuse, “We send you two home smelling like the gunpowder off that thing and your Ma will have a conniption.”

“But _Grillby-”_

“No buts, Asriel,” the fire chastised, cutting a stern look, “We don’t need the pair of you turnin into a couple of shootists.”

“The only people that carry pistols either can’t make good use of a rifle, or they’re fixin to be a gunfighter,” Gaster chipped in, eager to get the kids moved on to something else, “And we already know how shi-” he trailed off a tick, “How _bad_ I am with a rifle. That’s why I got two o’ these. Now come on you two, sun’s getting lower and we’ve got cows needs punching. Asriel, you better be ready to pick up that trail for us.”

Complaining loudly about having to get back in the saddle, the two kids got back to their horses. When they were out of earshot, Gaster scratched the back of his neck and said, “Thanks for that. I’m not sure how I was gonna explain all them notches to those kids.”

“Just stick to using that Winchester around here,” Grillby warned him, his voice low, “The less pieces folks have to put together on you, the better.”

“I ain’t drawn on no one yet, and I don’t plan to.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You know, you don’t gotta be so mean to me,” Gaster said, though there was a little bit of humor in is voice, like he was tryin to make light of something, “I’ve got common sense if nothing else. And I ain’t out here to ruin your life.”

Grillby looked away from him.

“Come on, you can read intent just as clear as any cow sign out here,” Gaster pressed, “I felt dangerous even _once_ to you? Outside of when I had to be.”

“Well I don’t know Gaster,” Grillby couldn’t stop himself from bristlin up a bit, feeling bitter about earlier, “You did say my eyesight’s gettin pretty bad.”

“Oh come on Grillby, you know I didn’t mean nothin’-”

“Mister Gaster!” Asriel called, waving at them from up a nearby hillside, “I found the trail!”

Grillby moved quickly to his horse, not letting Gaster stop him a second time. They didn’t talk much the rest of that evening, and the silence was felt. Though the two of them did promise, when finally they headed back to the ranch that evening, to keep taking the kids out to teach them shooting when time allowed, just so long as there were no more talk of six-shooters and side irons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy I actually got some history stuff I can talk about in this one! Notching your gun! Which is to say, people seem a little torn on whether it was actually a thing or not!
> 
> So notching your gun [or your belt, or the hilt of a knife/sword/what-have-you] is a practice by which a person would count the number of people they'd killed. In fiction, its generally a trope reserved for bad guys and antiheroes, the kind of people who would take pride in the number of people they'd killed. In Westerns, it's a thing normally attributed to outlaws. In practice however, from what I've read, historians don't think it was ever actually done. At the very least, there aren't any pistols/rifles sitting in museums with notches on them that indicate anything other than wear and tear.
> 
> I did find one quote, with no traceable source, from an interview/autobiography that may or may not actually exist, by Henry Starr - a man who robbed over 21 banks during his career as a "bad man" and shootist:
> 
> “A skilled workman is proud of his tools. Watch a barber honing and fondling his favorite razor. It’s the best razor in seven states, if you believe him, and he’ll brag about how many thousand faces it has shaves, the wonderful steel in its blade and how it holds its edge. Or listen to a conductor or engineer bragging bout his watch that never varies a hundredth part of a second; or a carpenter talking about that saw he has had for nineteen years. We’ll the six-shooter is the working tool of the outlaw and the fellows who chase him, and a darned sight more important to him than a razor to the barber or the watch to the engineer, for his life hangs on it. A good six-shooter costs about forty dollars, and if you want to go in for ivory, stag horn, silver or gold mountings, you can go up a lot higher. A fellow gets into a hole and it downs the other fellow, he’s proud of it. He gives it a notch for remembrance. By the time there are six or eight notches on the stock he is a killer. He’s likely to be case-hardened by then and drop a man just to add another notch. Maybe he’s jealous of somebody that’s got fourteen notches on his shooting iron. It gets to be a kind of contest, like a fellow getting a lot of medals.”
> 
> This was quoted by Chris Enss in a long misogynistic blog post about how he wishes we could notch womens' foreheads for accusing men of raping them, and I could find it literally nowhere else. According to the guy's website he's a historical fiction author who does extensive study on the "Wild West" and all its to-dos, so its very possible he pulled this from a book I can't find online anywhere. But given his agenda behind it and that he lists no resources..... eh.


	11. Wayfairer's Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which not much happens

Even for all the cold shouldering, Gaster stuck around Grillby. Sometimes Grillby figured the skeleton was like a lost dog, just glad to have a person nearby to bark at. Though that wasn’t really fair. Gaster was right - he’d made his intentions clear when he’d showed up in Grillby’s bar that first day. And the way he shadowed the elemental, his own brand of smoke flitting after Grillby’s fire, was about the most earnest way he could prove it. He was looking after Grillby in the only way he figured how - outside of riding off into nowhere to confront the Higgins gang one-against-twenty. 

Besides, the two of them spatted sometimes, but they weren’t unfriendly. They were still deeply fond of each other, though neither of them would know how to admit it in any way that required plain speaking. It was more in the little things. Grillby lingering after a hard day’s work to talk to Gaster, even knowing that it was an early morning, and his bed was an hour’s ride into town. It was in the way the tunes Gaster whistled turned brighter and more frequent when he was riding with Grillby than when he was riding with some other member of the outfit. Of course, people caught on that the two was close, or gettin closer. And they razzed them in that dumb way folks do sometimes when they see a low fire stoking and they just wished it’d hurry up and catch.

Grillby had to force himself to admit, riding up to the AD-Ranch one morning, that he was happy. This was something he’d always wanted, wasn’t it? Him and Gaster riding together - but riding someplace safe. Doing stupid things that didn’t matter, that wouldn’t get the two of them killed. There was still danger out there, there was still  _ trouble _ . But they weren’t riding out and inviting it in for dinner. They just… were. And he knew Gaster was happy to be around him again. There was a sort of light in his tired eyes when he looked up from his morning coffee to wave at Grillby as he come in. There were these sweet, stupid little moments where Grillby could almost forget how they met, and why, and what they’d done when they’d run together for the years that they did.

And then Grillby would look at Gaster’s gun belt, all polished up and well-kept and ready for use at a second’s thought. And Grillby knew Gaster didn’t carry those pistols for protection on the range. He carried those, and he carried with him the dust of monsters and the blood of men. Meanwhile Grillby had thrown his notched up Winchester under his bed years ago, and had no thought in him to ever take it out again, ‘cept maybe to destroy it and finally be rid of all the memories it carried, good and bad.

Fact of the matter was, Gaster was glad to be near Grillby, but he wasn’t right glad to be working as he was. Gaster was one of those free spirit types, born under a wandering star, or else he wished he was. And he liked trouble. The excitement was to him just as pretty as a sunset. He liked the runnin and chasin, and he liked to explore. He was biding his time here, forced to serve a sentence for a horse and some cash so he could carry on somewhere else. 

There was no mirage here. Grillby new as soon as the season was up and the danger had passed, Gaster would be on his way.

If Grillby were one of those fanciful types of folk, he might find the whole thing romantic somehow. It was a storybook affair, something you’d pick up in a dime novel and wrinkle your nose at and think there was no way in hell you’d be sad about something so mundane. And then a few months later someone in your life would move on and you’d wonder why God cursed you to love things that were always meant to see dust one way or another.

Anyhow, whenever he heard Gaster whistling Wayfarin’ Stranger, he rode alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every once in awhile I feel like I need a short chapter that basically says "time passed and we thought about stuff" but I don't know a more elegant way of writing it other than writing a short chapter where time passes and we think about stuff.
> 
> Anyway! Since this one is so short I might post another one this evening lol


	12. The Family Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we ask a lot of questions, and get a little backstory

“You openin up the bar this evening, fuego?”

It was hard to ignore all the heads swinging in his direction at the question. The day had ended early for them - they were well into the round-up now, and aside from a few stragglers they were combing the hills for, the roundup seemed to be coming to it’s close. So on particularly slow days he found it alright to head home early and open the bar, let in some customers and remember what life was supposed to feel like most of the year. The hand that had asked him, a man by the name of Manuel, came from a family of vaqueros and was one of Asgore’s returning hands from the previous year. And he and all the other folks helping with the roundup this year all looked at him right expectant, because if Grillby opened up the bar well, sometimes when Asgore was feeling grateful for the help, he’d pay the tab for the cowpunchers that night. 

“I was meaning to,” Grillby replied, “You folks thirsty?”

“Parched and sober,” Vera, one of the new hires this year piped up from where she was closing the corral gate, “The two worst things to be.”

There was a round of agreement from the cowhands, causing Grillby to chuckle, “Alright. But ya’ll are gonna break it to Asgore that all his help is goin into town tonight.”

“He’s got the riders watchin’ out for him,” Vera was speaking of the riflemen Asgore had hired to watch the grounds, “You go collect your singer and we’ll meet you in town.”

“He’s a singer alright,” Grillby said, “But he ain’t mine.”

“Not for lack of trying!”

Grillby shook his head, but rode off to find Gaster anyway. He’d broken off from the main group of riders, going after a handful of strays they’d spotted earlier that day. So Grillby rode off looking for him, and found him on one of the cowpaths not far off the main property, singing to his herd as they walked, looking tired and dust-beaten but overall pleased with himself.

_“--No one dared to ask his business, no one dared to make a slip,_

_The stranger there among them had a big iron on his hip,_

_Big iron on his hip-”_

Upon seeing Grillby, he tipped his head in a nod and sang a little softer. Which was all the same to Grillby anyhow, as he didn’t have much on his mind to talk about so he sat and listened anyway.

_"--He's an outlaw loose and runnin'", came a whisper from each lip,_

_And he's here to do some business with a big iron on his hip--”_

The song went on about rangers and outlaws, and a shootout in the square, and all the while talking about the ranger’s six-shooter. It was a catchy tune all things considered, and the type that kinda got caught in your head and run and circles. Which must’ve been the case for Gaster, as when the song finished he started whistling it over again sorta absent-mindedly, and kept up the tune as they corralled up the last of the stock and made in the direction of town. They were joined shortly by Michael and Eide, the two hands that had been in Grillby’s bar the day Gaster had rambled into town.

“You whistlin’ about Texas Red?” Michael asked him, pickin a burr out of his tail as he rode, and Gaster nodded, “It’s a fun song.”

“Hymns and outlaw ballads, that’s all you ever make any noise about,” Eide said.

“And what else would you have me sing?” Gaster asked, putin on just about the most annoying singing voice he could, “ _Oh give me a hooooome, where the buuuufalo roooaaam-!”_

“Oh hush up! That’s the only song I know all the way through.”

“All three of you hush up, or I’m chargin’ you double for drinks,” Grillby warned them, making a show of coverin his ears, “You fools make it up to heaven and God ain’t putin’ you in the choir, that’s for damn sure.”

“I make it up to heaven,” Gaster said with a laugh, “It’s because the Devil wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with me.”

“Oh har dee har,” Eide snorted, “I don’t care what them Dreemurr kids says happened with them, I don’t think you got it in you to hurt a fly.”

“ ‘Course not,” Gaster caged snakes in his direction, not that anyone but Grillby would know enough about him to notice, “What’s a fly ever done to me?”

They jawed all their way down the road, makin jabs at each other’s pride like it was a game. Once at the bar with the rest, Grillby got to serving, one of the hands callin that Asgore was takin the tab. They was a right sight, half a dozen cow-punchers shooting the breeze while some of the folk in town stopped in to take advantage of the bar bein open. Gaster lined up with a couple of folks to throw darts, knockin folks out their socks with his aim. And as the night passed all the folks just got louder, as they will when drink and good company shake hands. Would make a body forget the hard days’ work it’d been through, and all the trouble brewin in the range just outside the watch of a rifleman’s sights. Old man Dreemurr himself even stopped in as the dusk rolled in to have a whiskey and razz his workers, though he ducked out right quick, makin the excuse that the Missus was waitin’ up on him, and that he shouldn’t make a bad example of himself for the kids. Grillby wasn’t one to judge, but the Dreemurr family carried themselves as a family that either feared liquor because of their past with it, or because they’d had no dealings with it at all. Sometimes he wondered what the story was there.

Folks filtered in and back out slowly, like the bob of tall grass in a southeasterly wind, and soon it was just the cowpunchers sittin and drinkin and talking about the nothing-of-something that comes important when you’ve drunk probably one or two too many. There was a lot of bluffing about feats on the range, of cows rangled and close calls with the wildlife. Eide swore up and down he saved Michael from a grizzly bear that come up at them from a stand of trees, and Vera told a yarn about a roving pack of coyotes all bristled up with magic like they’d just ate monster souls. Didn’t matter much that they all thought each other was lyin, half the fun was in spinning the yarn. Mostly Grillby sat back and cleaned the used glasses, checkin his timepiece every once in awhile to make sure they weren’t in too late - he was also needed in the early morning to help finish the drive just as much as the rest of them. As the talkin wore on, Gaster found himself a shadowy corner and a whisky glass to nurse, and he whistled under his breath for them as he listened to the others talk. 

Grillby picked out the tune again as Gaster whistled it. 

_In this town there lived an outlaw by the name of Texas Red_

_Many men had tried to take him and that many men were dead_

_He was vicious and a killer, though a youth of twenty four_

_And the notches on his pistol numbered one and nineteen more_

_One and nineteen more_

_Now the stranger started talkin' made it plain to folks around_

_Was an Arizona ranger, wouldn't be too long in town_

_He was here to take an outlaw back alive or maybe dead_

_And he said it didn't matter he was after Texas Red_

_After Texas Red_

“There you go with that daggum outlaw music again,” Eide spat, nearly missing the spitoon in his stupor.

Gaster broke his tune to take a drink and mutter, “They’re interesting.”

“Sure, it all _sounds_ interesting,” the scraggly human replied, scratching at his patchwork beard, “But you ever come up on a _real_ badman, you know, with real notches in his gun? Reckon’ that stops bein cool real fast.”

“You think them boys out on the range has notches in their guns?” Vera asked.

“That’s for the riflemen to worry about,” Grillby hummed, “Besides, they’ve been quiet for weeks now. Figure they’re probably fixin’ to move on. Find an easier herd to score.”

“Does make you wonder though, don’t it?” Michael was sprawled out on the floor, simply because he seemed to figure it was a comfortably place to stretch out, “Can’t be easy roughin’ it out there for weeks on end hopin’ for a score. All that for a thousand head of cattle if you’re good, and a noose if you’re not.”

“A thousand head of cattle, current market sits at about fifty greenbacks a head,” Grillby said.

“I ain’t worth nothin’ for figures right now, Mister Grillby.”

“Men have done much worse than steal for fifty thousand grand,” Gaster said, taking a long drink from his glass.

“Ain’t nobody buyin’ stolen cattle for fifty a head,” Vera called, “ ‘sides, that kinda payload you’d have to wrangle past territory lines, hell maybe even out to Wild Country. Need a small army to get the herd anywhere through there in one piece.”

Grillby pointed in her direction and did his best impression of raising an eyebrow at Gaster, “She’s got a point.”

“Twenty-three dollars a head,” Gaster said, doing some kind of math in his own head about everything, a half-focusesd gaze on his mostly empty glass, “You make it to a market down south that don’t know the brand, lose about a third of the herd to the wildlife. Grillby, what’s that?”

“That’s somewhere near six hundred steers.”

“Six hundred, twenty-three times,” Gaster swirled his glass, “Split between twenty people assuming everyone’s in one piece. That’s less than a thousand dollars.”

“Seven hundred dollars,” Grillby nodded.

Gaster chewed on that for a minute, and then announced loudly, “Why not just rob a bank?”

“Why are we robbin’ a bank?” Manuel asked.

“Banks are guarded?”

“Banks ain’t guarded for twenty people,” Gaster argued, sitting up in his seat, “You rob a bank, get twenty grand, split it twenty ways. That’s a thousand a piece, all at once. Hell, some of your guys get shot that’s more money in your pocket.”

“But we ain’t robbin’ a bank,” Michael sounded confused.

“Right, that’s the point,” Gaster ushered out the window in some vague direction, halfway spilling what was left of his whiskey, “Cattle rustlers make sense down in Texas. Mexico’s right there waitin’ for a long run, and unless it’s a big ranch brand they ain’t gonna care who’s sellin them beef. What fool cattle thief is gonna steal from a ranch way up here just to run it into all the drives headin north? You could just rob a bank!”

“Maybe they’re stupid outlaws?” Eide asked.

Gaster lapsed into silence, and Grillby felt some tension sorta ease its way out of his flame. Everyone seemed a bit too tired to ask any pryin questions, and for that Grillby was thankful. But Gaster could only go so long half-drunk talking about scores before Grillby could hear him talking about making one, and in present company that meant tellin everyone that mattered who he was. 

“You ever wonder what makes outlaws, do it,” Michael asked, “You know, be outlaws? It doesn’t sound easy. It sounds hard, and dangerous,” he pointed to the outlaw board, and a few of the folks had enough sense in them to look. Gaster cast it a passing glance, “Hellfire and Gunsmoke. Those two robbed banks, they hit stages and trains. Killed two sheriffs and a hell of a lot of other folks. What makes someone do that? You’d think folks like that wouldn’t even have a soul left to fight with.”

“Folks like that is the easiest to figure out,” Gaster said, and as subtly as he could Grillby flashed him a glare. Gaster ignored him quite pointedly, “They’re just bad people. That’s it.”

“That can’t be it.”

Now, Gaster thought about that for a tick, and there was half a second where Grillby thought the matter might drop itself. Manuel and Vera and two of the hands they’d been playin poker with were all fallin asleep at a table. Eide was lookin through his satchel like he was makin sure all his stuff was in one place to go. And Michael seemed to be waitin on the world to stop spinning.

“I heard a rumor once, down in Tucumcari, that the first man ol’ Gunsmoke up there ever kilt was his Daddy,” Gaster said, glaring up at the wanted poster on the wall, “Folks said his old man was one of them hellfire and brimstone types. Those kind of God-fearin men that don’t spare the rod for fear it’ll spoil the son, ‘cept he didn’t stop at beatin his kids. Said one day he dusted his wife after she came home late from work at the factory. Then Gunsmoke attacked his old man like some kinda mountain cat, and didn’t lay off him till he was crumblin all to pieces on the floor.”

Gaster looked down at his empty glass, “People like that’s just cursed. There’s some little black thread up in their souls that reaches right down through the family line - like father like son. Sometimes, bad people just happen to this world, and all the other good-standin folks just gotta deal with ‘em, because what else is good folks to do?”

“Sleep,” Grillby said abruptly, “Good folks sleep,” and crossing over to Gaster he snatched up the monster’s glass, “And they don’t drink Devil’s Brew past midnight.”

About an hour later Grillby was sweeping the floor in a mostly empty bar. Mostly empty, save for Gaster, still tucked away in that shady corner of his, pretending like he was gonna fall asleep. Except Grillby could almost feel the magic in the air up about him, and hear the clickin of dangerous thoughts in the back of his skull. So, findin he didn’t have much else to clean, nor did he rightly have the will in his heart to kick Gaster out to ride back home while he was feelin dark and brooding, Grillby instead walked behind his bar counter and selected a bottle from one of the middle shelves. Then he sat on the bench beside Gaster, poured a drink, and held it for a few seconds before sliding it over.

Gaster looked down at the warm drink, quietly frowning at it like it’d called him yellow.

“It’ll help you sleep,” Grillby ordered, swirling his own drink in his hand before downing it and feelin the warmth start fluttering up in his chest.

“This going on my tab?”

“Only if you want it to.”

“I thought you wasn’t in the business of charity.”

Grillby poured himself a drink, and ignoring Gaster’s bitter talk said, “You ain’t cursed.”

Gaster looked away from him, looking mighty kiddish, like he was gettin in trouble for something.

“You made your decisions. Some of them had good reasons, most of them didn’t,” Grillby glared at him sternly, “But you ain’t cursed.”

“So I’m a badman by choice,” Gaster said, sounding miserable, “You used to be too.”

“Means you can stop if you want to, too, you know,” Grillby offered kinda slowly, but Gaster was already laughing at him like he’d made a stupid joke, “It’s true.”

“Sure Grillby. I’ll just _settle down_. Find a town where nobody knows me - hell maybe I’ll even start up my own little saloon and pretend to be a decent person, all the while just _prayin_ all the yokels is too stupid to figure me out. Hell I’m used to livin scared someone’ll hunt me down - why not do it in one place with a roof over my damn head.”

“Alright, you’re drunk,” Grillby stood up, taking his bottle and his glass with him, “You only get mean when you’re drunk.”

The skeleton gave him a wicked, angry sorta grin, “I’ve got my Daddy’s temper.”

“Just shut up and drink your tonic and go to sleep.”

“Oh I’m sorry, am I gettin’ too much for you to handle?” Gaster asked loudly, “Why don’t you just leave?”

“You’re in _my_ bar.”

“Just walk right on out of here,” Gaster laughed ushering off vaguely with his spindly arms, “You’re good at that!”

Grillby felt somethin in his chest start to boil.

“At least this time it’d make _sense!”_ he threw the glass Grillby had left him, shattering it on the far wall of the room. Even drunk, Gaster still had an arm on him, though Grillby wasn’t much intimidated by it. All the intent in the air had no harm in it - all it was was miserable and sad. Angry-sad, like when you’re too cut up to figure out what you’re feelin rightly.

“Gaster,” Grillby warned him, “You need to calm down.”

“Calm down? Calm _down_ says the fire all stoked up about shit that don’t matter like ranch kids and - and - tinder houses! Stupid - stupid -!”

“I need to kick you outta here like some other slobberin drunk, or are you gonna pipe down?”

“We were finally making it!” Gaster shouted, “We was gettin somewhere! We had a good score!”

“Keep your damn voice down.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” Gaster said, somehow making his voice louder, “Am I makin’ you nervous? Scared someone’s gonna hear your troublesome pet drifter ravin’ like a lunatic and ruin your pretend life?”

Now Grillby had had just about enough of Gaster at this point, and he stormed over to him, wreathed in smoke.

“There you go again, gettin angry at stupid shit,” Gaster laughed, but he shut up right quick when Grillby picked him up by the neck of his duster and pressed him up against the nearest wall. There was a tense second where Grillby held him up against that wall, just angry, and Gaster looked at him like he was confused about something, and for all of Grillby’s anger, he had no idea what he’d been planning to do.

“Well, you gonna hit me or just stand there scorchin’ my coat,” Gaster asked finally.

Now that just about had Grillby’s blood boiling all over again. It took an awful lot of restraint not to just give Gaster what he was askin’ for and punch him just as hard as he pleased. Burning hot and blue and flyin’ sparks like a kicked wasp nest, Grillby let him go. They were standing face to face, and Grillby said with all the venom he could muster, “Leave.”

Gaster stood there for a second, like he might argue or say somethin edgewise. But he didn’t. He slunk wordlessly out of the bar, only wobbling a little when he knocked into the doorway. When he was gone, Grillby was still boilin’ over, and it was no shortage of anger that he walked over to Gaster’s smashed glass and started cleanin the mess. Outside Gaster started whistling as he saddled up his horse, and kept whistling off into the distance, the sound dyin out the further he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose its called Devil's Brew for a reason.
> 
> Also! The song in this is Big Iron by Marty Robbins, first recorded in 1959 and was decidedly not around during my projected timeline for this story of 1850-1870. But you know what? It's a bop so who cares! I recommend watching Berb's little animation meme of it on Youtube :3
> 
> Also also! Manuel the Vaquero - Vaqueros were the original cowboys, and they [along with the many amazing black cowboys there used to be] are some of the most habitually erased people when it comes to Westerns. Which is a crying shame since their culture is and was amazing and beautiful. Vaquero is also where we get the modern day term buckaroo!


	13. Prairie Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we begin a wild goose [cat?] chase

Grillby was up early the next morning, feeling all cut up on his insides, thinking about Gaster the night before. For one thing, he felt bad about sending him on his way drunk and bitter all up in his soul, and Grillby being so damn angry when he done it. For another, Gaster seemed a whole lot more tore up about how they’d parted ways years ago than Grillby had figured him to be. Gaster had told him before it’d made him mad, but there was a whole lot of bitter coming out with the whiskey last night, and while drink surely tended to exaggerate things, it also made people speak stuff they otherwise wouldn’t. So Grillby got to wondering just how angry had Gaster been to find him here living peaceably in a nowhere town, content with how things had ended up. How much did Gaster resent him leaving? 

He tried not to chew on it too hard as he rode up to the Dreemurr’s place, knowing if he thought on it too long, he’d start jumping to all sorts of conclusions, most of which was probably untrue. Besides, surely Gaster couldn’t hate him too bad, seeings as they’d been mostly inseparable since he showed back up. Except it was mighty hard not to overthink yourself when what you were thinkin on is nowhere in sight. Grillby didn’t see Gaster on the ranch when he rode in, and that didn’t change as the morning worked on and he was partnered up with a few of the hands to do recounts and branding instead of riding out searching. He was sort of itchin to be out on the range and put eyes on Gaster and make sure the idiot had made it back to the ranch safe last night. But he had a job to do, and Gaster was a grown man who, assumedly, could take care of himself.

They broke for a quick lunch around noon, and Gaster still didn’t make an appearance - though if he were out rounding up strays he wouldn’t come back ‘til evening anyway. And that seemed to be what everyone assumed he was doing. Grillby never came out and asked directly, he didn’t want to make people think _he_ thought Gaster had run off, being that Gaster was here on his word, and for all their joking around he was still mostly a stranger to most of the people here. But still, it worried him. He didn’t like not knowin things, and to him Gaster seemed about one of the hardest things a person could know right about now. 

When evening started to settle in, Grillby had had about enough of waiting and worrying, and finally asked around. He was relieved to know Gaster had made it back to the bunkhouse, but that he was gone before breakfast without much of a word to anyone. Most just sorta figured he was hungover and had left early to dodge the morning racket. Feeling sort of stupid for worrying so much but figuring it couldn’t be helped, Grillby asked what direction Gaster had went in and rode out after him muttering the excuse, “Don’t the damn fool know we’re supposed to be stayin in groups with those rustlers around?”

Of course, he was only feeling more stupid once he was on the trail and remembered he was only so good at tracking, and Gaster was a hell of a lot better at making himself scarce. It was getting dark out, and Grillby was fixin to get home and leave Gaster to his sulking when he finally spotted a campfire off in the distance, and takin his chances made his way in its direction. When he rode up to it the campfire was untended, but he recognized the buckskin Gaster rode out with, so he staked his horse nearby and waited. He’d nearly dozed off when the breaking of brush nearby startled him back up again, and Gaster walked up to the fire.

“‘Bout time.”

“Ain’t you got something better to do?” Gaster demanded, all bristled up for no good reason.

“I was just checking in.”

“Well you checked.”

“Who pissed in your coffee?”

“Your ma did,” Gaster snapped in about the most childish way Grillby thought was possible, then added, “I don’t need you babysittin me.”

“Well that’s where I figure you’re wrong,” Grillby sighed, leaning back against a nearby tree and making it clear he had no intention of going anywhere, “You’re my responsibility ‘til the drive is over.”

“And what, you think we get into a spat and I’m just gonna cut out on you?” Gaster looked downright insulted, and Grillby sorta started to figure maybe that was why Gaster’d been so mad comin up to the fire in the first place, “Might not’ve been born with much decent, but I ain’t gonna make you a liar just to spite you.”

“Alright, I’ll bite,” Grillby said, trying not to sound a bit ashamed that was one of the thoughts that had run through his head during the day, “What are you doing way out here anyway?”

“Cougar followed me back to the property part of the way yesterday, when I was bringing in those strays,” Gaster said, his words all clipped short and tense and his arms crossed, “Seemed like it got used to hunting the stock out here. I figured I’d do something about it before it found its way closer to the homestead.”

“And what are you gonna do, shoot it with a pistol?”

“I can use a rifle even if I’m not quite as good as you with it.”

“You ever been cougar hunting?”

“Can’t be much harder than hunting anything else.”

“You also remember there’s a band of no-goods out here threatening the property, and you’re out here alone?”

“All the faster I’ll be out of your hair then when they dust me,” Gaster scowled, “Now you fixin to question me all night, Sheriff?”

Grillby held his hands up, trying to make it known he was peaceable, “Alright, fine. You just had me worried, is all.”

“I’m not gonna ruin your nice-guy reputation.”

“I was worried about _you_ , jackass,” Well that shut Gaster down for a spell, enough at least for Grillby to get in, “You left in the middle of the night, mad enough to kill a bear with a switch and drunk as a skunk, and then you leave out without a word to no one-"

"I didn't _leave_ you _kicked me_ out."

"Well I wouldn't have kicked you _out_ ," Grillby said tensely, "If you'd just _simmered down."_

"I was drunk!"

"You was still sober enough to know better!"

“And you was sober enough to know to let me be!”

“I was trying to _help!”_

“You call that helping?” Gaster laughed and mocked Grillby’s tone of voice, “Don’t worry partner you ain’t cursed you just _choose_ to be wicked.”

“You do!”

“ _Crissakes_ I didn’t ride halfway ‘cross the country just to be judged by the feller I used to rob trains with!”

Now Gaster was wound up and his magic was all bristled up around his shoulders like a kicked dog. There was somethin’ mean talking around in his skull, but he was too angry to speak it, so instead he just sorta stood there glaring. And it was only about then that Grillby remembered he’d come out here to help, not to make a nuisance of himself. It crossed his mind that maybe it would be best for him to mount up and ride home, and chance gettin lost in the dark if it meant giving Gaster some peace and quiet. ‘Cept he still didn’t feel right leaving the skeleton alone while there was a pack of no-accounts running loose. So instead he asked, “Would you like some help doing your hunting?”

“I don’t need your goddamn help.”

“I didn’t ask if you _needed_ my help, I already know you do,” Gaster looked fit to be tied, “Just figured you might get lonely if I leave.”

Looking tired for all the arguing and how angry he was, Gaster kinda snarled and said, “Do what you want,” before storming over to grab his bedroll from his horse and put it down. They didn’t speak any for the rest of the night, though Grillby supposed that was for the best. He’d done a good deal to get Gaster riled back up again, though for the life of him he didn’t know how to calm him back into something more tame again. It was nigh impossible to un-kick a hornet’s nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too much to say about this one other than the dialogue was super fun to work on lol. Bickering is fun to write. Arguing not so much, but bickering has so much attached snark.


	14. It All Comes Out with the Wash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it rains a little

They were up and going first thing in the morning, Gaster nearly riding off without Grillby when he decided the fire weren’t moving fast enough. Though in spite of it, Grillby was glad he stuck around. Seemed to him like Gaster planned on hunting his cougar on nothing but coffee and spite, and if it weren’t for Grillby riding out after him he wouldn’t have had any breakfast. 

They made their way through increasingly rocky country, creeping closer to the wild places where most folk started riding shy. Once in the distance they saw one of Asgore’s riflemen and had the good sense to come over and introduce themselves and their business before moving on. The rifleman was even kind enough to point them in a direction, saying she’d been pretty sure she saw cougar sign up one of the valleys. She sent them in the right direction for sure. They found a stashed carcass of what was probably a calf, and the mixed up bones of several other kills that Grillby could only assume had been dragged out here, because there was no way in hell one cat could kill twelve steers in one place. Gaster spent the whole morning swinging in and out of the saddle, checking old pawprints that Grillby could hardly make out as more than scuffs on the ground. Though the dim light didn’t help much. The night before had blown in some angry looking storm clouds, and it seemed like all hell were fixing to break loose soon. Grillby kept an eye open for good places he could duck under should the sky start falling. 

“You should head back,” Gaster told him once as the clouds got darker, turning all purple and sick.

“And miss watching you get mauled by a lion?”

“I’m not leaving the damn range,” Gaster was all bristles right quick again, “And I know how to take care of my damn self. But _you’re_ fixing to drown.”

“Alright fine,” Grillby relented just a smidge, “Let’s head back then.”

“Chrissakes - I will meet you back at the ranch when I’m done.”

“You’re gonna get yourself killed, is what you’re gonna do.”

Gaster threw his hands up in the air, giving up. Then he was back out of his saddle and looking at cougar tracks. About another hour, maybe two, and lighting was striking out across the sky in long forks, the wind chasing it in wheezing gusts. Gaster looked up at it and back to Grillby, and Grillby shrugged at him. 

“You ain’t scared at all?”

“Well, I’m mighty nervous,” Grillby said, rolling himself a cigarette, “But I ain’t scared yet I don’t figure.”

Truth be told, Grillby was getting more than just nervous. He’d been stuck out on the range during rain before - he’d be lucky not to after working it for five years - but this storm breaking towards them was looking a good lot fiercer than any he’d been through before. The ground seemed just about made of thunder whenever the loud noise rolled past, and you could hear it crossing the horizon when it hunted the lightning. But Gaster was hell-bent on still going after this stupid moutain cat and didn’t seem willing to stop anytime soon, even as they were crossing into deeper hills; the kind that could hide a cat like that until you least knew it was sneaking up on you, and Grillby started wondering why he’d insisted on following Gaster all the way out here. He knew exactly why of course, but it was a deeper sort of why he was asking, the kind that was closer to “why bother” and “why am I?”

The storm broke, and when it did, it broke quick and sudden. There was a few fat raindrops that hit the ground heavy, and there was a big ‘ol sheet of slate grey rearing up like a flood wall right in front of them. Grillby and Gaster had about enough time to exchange one of them “Well, shit,” sorta looks before it was pouring a downright deluge right on top of them, and the wind was howling and the sky was black, and about all they had to see with was Grillby’s fire sputterin and hissin and the long pale streaks of lightning running down the knotted spine of overhead storm clouds.

Grillby’s clothes was soaked through in an instant, and he was _cold_ , all the way down to his center like he’d fallen through a snowdrift. Took the air clean out of him, and there was a shudder across his whole body and an itch on his arms and shoulders and back, and he could hear his flame hiss. His horse jerked underneath him of a sudden, and Grillby grabbed a fistful of reigns as suddenly they was runnin a full gallop, though Grillby coudn’t see where they was going. 

They stopped so suddenly again that Grillby almost fell off his horse, and he had enough time to wonder what the hell was going on when a pair of hands had grabbed him and yanked him out of the saddle. Grillby sputtered and sparked and caught air as he was literally _thrown_. But he hit the ground someplace dark and dry, and looking up he could see a rocky ceiling. And then he felt a needle-stinging just about all over his body and he remembered he wasn’t s’posed to be this wet. A deep-seated ache started to seep into him like he’d been bruised all over, and it made him mighty stiff to move as he shrugged off his duster and started working at the buttons on his shirt.

Lighting struck outside close enough to make him jump, and in the open mouth of the cave he’d been thrown into, Grillby recognized the outline of Gaster, looking all spindly and thin with his drenched clothes stickin to his sharp shoulders. He’d led the horses to a windbreak against the hillside and now he was coming back, a bundle of sticks and branches under his arm that he’d been gathering up as they’d gone that day. Of course, they was soaked through just as bad as the two monsters were from the deluge, but he brought them anyway. Gaster cast off his jacket and hat and crossed over to Grillby, helping the fire strip off his vest and shirt.

“S’pose they probably needed washed anyway,” Grillby said, slipping off his boots while Gaster wrung out the clothes as best he could before splaying out the wrinkled fabric against the cave wall. Then he crouched over the firewood he’d brought and started picking through it, sorta scowling as he broke some of the limbs to see if any of them were dry enough to work with.

“Give me a bit and I can probably get it lit just fine,” Grillby told him, “I’ll have to dry it out though.”

“You worry about stoking your fire up first,” Gaster said, “I’m trying to find you something easy to burn. Reckon you’re about ready to shatter like glass.”

Grillby looked down at himself, sorta quietly taking stock of how cold he’d gotten. He was a bit more susceptible to the cold than most folks, which was more his undoing than the wet when it came to rain. As long as there was an ember left burning in him, he could rekindle fire. But the cold made his fire low and his core all stiff like it was freezing over, and if it got too stiff he’d start to break and bleed. That sort of thing stung a whole awful lot more than just being wet or cold, and the more he bled, the less he had to burn with, and you can’t stoke a fire on cinders if you got no cinders left. As it was now, Grillby’s shoulders and arms had gotten the most of the water when it come down, and his core was all tense and sort of scabbed-over-like, so he was sorta wary of moving too much.

At length Gaster tossed him some tinder he decided was dry enough and Grillby got them a little campfire going. It wasn’t much, but he could feel the warmth of it working almighty fast, especially backed up against the cave wall where the heat could sort of bounce back at him when it glowed outwards. 

“I’m sure you’ve got an ‘I told you you should’ve gone back’ knocking around in that skull of yours,” Grillby said after the two of them had sat in silence for awhile, “Go ahead and get it out of your system.”

But Gaster didn’t say nothing for a long minute, staring deep into their little campfire like it could give him the answer to something he was mulling over. Grillby let him sit, mostly because he knew Gaster wouldn’t talk until he was good and ready. Though it did worry him a bit that the skeleton had been so quiet all day, except for the times he was being angry, or when he needed to tell Grillby something or another. He was starting to wonder if the next time Gaster spoke, it would be something worth worrying about. 

“I don’t get you,” Gaster said finally, still not looking up from the fire like he was talkin to it instead.

“I’m mighty simple - not sure there’s much to get lost in.”

“You’re always creeping around me like I’m the snake that bit you.”

“You say that like you ain’t.”

“I never made you do nothing you weren’t ready to.”

“Sure you didn’t,” Grillby said, feeling sorta tense up inside, “You was just in the awful habit of getting angry and running off on some fool’s errand like you had a death wish.”

“It was always your choice to come after me.”

“Like hell it was.”

“I didn’t own you,” Gaster snapped, looking mighty wicked with the fire lighting up his face and the lightning splashing his back, “And I didn’t have nothing you needed.”

“Oh for Christ sakes Gaster,” Grillby shouted, sparking all over, “I cared about you. You think I was gonna let you ride off on your own to God knows what and get yourself killed?”

“Sure you cared about me. That’s why you left, right?”

There was a loud crack of thunder overhead, the sort of splitting noise that makes you wonder if a whole forest of trees didn’t just snap in half and rolling underneath it low was a deeper rumble like the beast that did it growled. There was another distant strike of lightning, and the wind shifted, blowing the long grass sideways.

“You were always so _angry_ ,” Grillby said, “It’s like God offended you every time you come out of something alive. But you can’t fight the whole damn world, Gaster. At some point you gotta stop.”

“And that’s how you figured on stopping me?”

“No, I - no. I just couldn’t handle you anymore. You was always talking like, I dunno, like we’d run away together or something. And I always hoped next time would be it. But we’d run outta money and we’d go into town, and you’d get this look-”

“I wasn’t the only one schemin out of the two of us,” Gaster snapped at him, magic so angry Grillby could taste it like burning metal, “And then you just started burnin out on it like you was getting bored. Bored all the time! Robbin folks wasn’t good enough, so we robbed a bank and then we robbed a stage and then we robbed a goddamn train and then you got bored of that when we had nowhere else to go. So then you what, make up this big story to yourself like you weren’t bored of me too?”

“It was hard work, Gaster! Christ - Michael was right when he started looking up at that outlaw board and figuring out it wasn’t all worth it - ‘cause it wasn’t!”

“It was good enough for you for awhile.”

“Fine! You’re right! It was good enough when all we were was newspaper headlines and sharp spurs. Until we were running for two years straight, wanted in three states and two territories, and every town we run up in people was startin to notice we were bringing trouble. What do you want from me? I was _tired_ , Gaster.

“Bounty hunters catching us in saloons when we was just trying to have a drink. Whole posses of gunmen and sharpshooters tracking us for weeks through Wild Country while we were getting more tired and strung out and low on everything from guns to food,” Grillby shook his head, “I’d die a thousand times over in a blaze of glory, but that slow choke? Watching the noose get tighter and my neck squeeze shut and watchin you squirm on the gallows right with me? _That’s hell_ Gaster. 

“I was scared. Shit, I’m _still_ scared most days. And here you walk into town, hot on the trail of my worst nightmare threatening to drag me back in with every word outta your goddamn mouth. And the whole time talking like everything we ever done was dipped in gold.”

For a bit both of them was just quiet, listening to the rain pour down and the low, more distant rolls of thunder. The lightning had stopped its heavier striking, instead only lighting up the clouds from somewhere high up in the sky, up higher than the black storm was rolling.

“I still care about you,” Grillby said finally, “And… I’ve been treating you unfairly, I know I have. You’re a decent person, at least you try to be, and I know you’d never hurt me if you had the choice. But Gaster, right now you’re about the scariest thing I ever saw in my whole life. This season’s gonna be ending soon, and you’ll be free to go whichever way you please off this land. But I’m begging you Gaster, don’t ask me to come with you.”

There was another long pause, and Gaster was staring deep into the fire, but there was a mighty stillness on his shoulders like every thought he’d ever had just grinded to a stop. He just sorta sat there on the balls of his feet looking nearly like he’d turned to stone there.

Then he said in a voice that was awful small, “We were happy.”

Grillby hesitated a moment and then said, “We could still be.”

“If I put down roots.”

“If you put down roots.”

“Live out the rest of my life eatin’ dust on the AD.”

“It’s pretty country,” Grillby offered, “That’s what you always liked most about it, wasn’t it? Runnin through the world and seeing it all. So what if your world just got a little smaller? You could roam all these plains and hills until you’d turned every last stone.”

Gaster didn’t speak, but his shoulders were slumped like someone was stepping down on him and his magic had dropped clean out of the air to pool with the rainwater off his clothes. He looked like misery.

“But I s’pose,” Grillby said slowly, “That’s nothing much different than a pretty cage to you, is it?”

“There’s mountains out there Grillby, and I don’t much care what I gotta do to get to them… They’re calling me.”

“Yeah... I reckon they are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I was a-ready to die for you, baby  
>  Doesn't mean I'm ready to stay  
> What good is livin' a life you've been given  
> If all you do is stand in one place  
> I'm on a river that winds on forever  
> Follow 'til I get where I'm goin'  
> Maybe I'm headin' to die but I'm still gonna try  
> I guess I'm goin' alone_  
> The Ends of the Earth - Lord Huron


	15. Cattails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet some wild magic

Took the storm a few hours to blow over, during which they managed to get their clothes some semblance of dry, and Grillby managed to warm up enough not to break apart at the seams. Felt mighty nice to stand up and roll his shoulders and feel like he could move. They decided to call it quits on the cougar hunt, mostly since their spirits were so low they’d be six feet under if they pressed them much farther. Grillby found himself sorta dreading the long walk back to the Dreemurr place though. Seemed like it to him the closer they got to the end of the roundup, the deeper the wedge between he and Gaster was driving itself. 

But that’s just how things were sometimes.

At least with the rain clearing out to spatters, the land looked pretty. All the colors in everything seemed deeper after rain come through, like someone had put colored glass on the world. Off in the distance the afternoon sun cut through the clouds and slit bright beams of light all over the hills and plains like God’s own spotlight on the world. Thunder still rumbled a way off in the distance, and Grillby could see that great big sheet of grey as the rain that’d passed through misted up the far horizon - but it was pretty.

Course he was so caught up with the view he didn’t notice nothing was odd until he was walking into Gaster, who’d stopped short right in front of him.

“What?”

“The horses,” Gaster gestured, and for a second Grillby was scared their horses had gotten loose and run off with the storm. But no they was still there, but they were standing close together at the ends of their lines, and they were spooked. The buckskin was pawing, tail all curled up and ears back, and Ash was making like she was ready to bolt. And a growl from the brush told them what the fuss was about. All bristled up and ready for a fight was that mountain cat they’d been tracking, tawny pelt making it hard to see against the blowing grass. Both Gaster and Grillby froze in place, standing between a hungry cat and a pair of spooked horses.

“Get behind me,” Grillby whispered, flickering up a little brighter.

“Why?”

“Cause that thing bites me it’ll burn the tar outta itself. It bites you, it gets a snack.”

“You ain’t wrong.”

The cougar snarled and took a step towards them, and movin slow Gaster sorta shuffled a step behind Grillby. Grillby took a step towards the critter, all bright colors, his magic tracing smoke trails in the air and he shouted at it, hopin to scare it off, “Get! Go on! Get outta here! I ain’t scared ‘a you - get!”

The cat sorta crouched, growling like it was trying to decide if its meal was worth fightin over. Then there was a sort of sizzlin noise, and Grillby watched the black tip on the end of it’s tail light up a sick sorta glowing green, and out from there tracing through its fur was all sorts of curling patterns, reaching up ‘til its whiskers and eyes were glowing too.

“ ‘Course we’d run into the only magic cat this side of the Mississippi.”

“How d’you think it killed all them steers?”

“You  _ knew  _ it was magic?!”

That was about all they had time to bicker over when the cat snarled and leaped, and Grillby found himself throwing his arm in the critter’s mouth because he’d rather it bite him there than anywhere else. Those teeth stabbed deep into him, and he felt an awful pressure like his arm might snap in half. And then the cat was screaming and snarling off of him, fire in its mouth and the smell of burning hair makin the air turn sour. Grillby no sooner climbed to his feet there was a boom of rifle fire, and the cat jerked and fell over, and jerked again when a second shot sounded. Grillby looked back to see Gaster standing by the horses, rifle in hand, a wide-eyed look on his face like he was half startled to death. 

“You alright?”

“I’ve got holes in me,” Grillby complained, scowling as he ripped off the sleeve of his shirt, not keen on the torn fabric catchin fire and scorching up the rest of his clothes, “What about you?”

“Kinda surprised I hit it,” there was a laugh in his voice like he was mighty relieved, and Grillby chose to ignore the fact that he’d been in between Gaster and the cat when he’d shot, choosin to believe Gaster had good enough aim with a rifle to hit what he was aiming at and that it weren’t a lucky happenstance Grillby had been missed.

A low growl and they were both staring again at where the wildcat had fallen. The critter rose up to its feet and shook out its fur, that slow green light creeping out over its fur again, the hole Gaster had put in it closing up.

“Right,” Grillby said, “Green magic.”

“You reckon it’s got nine lives?” Gaster asked in the sort of way a man asks a question he already knows the answer to.

The cat lunged again, and this time Grillby wasn’t fixin to let it have another piece of him. He swung up like he was gonna punch the damn thing in its open jaws, but followed through with his fire instead, a quick jab that set the side of its face alight and blinded it with fire and smoke. Gaster shot at it and missed. Grillby was billowing smoke, and he sifted it full of cinders in the cat’s direction, and it hissed at all the tiny pock-mark burns. It lunged for him again, fixin to swipe them heavy claws across his chest but snapped through a sting of blue-magic snake bones instead that set it to limping.

“Rifle!” Grillby shouted, and Gaster tossed it to him in a practiced way not even looking at his outstretched hand. Grillby worked the bolt, clearing the cartridge from the chamber. He didn’t have time to draw it up to his shoulder when the cat lunged at him again, shooting from the hip instead and catching it heavy in the chest. The cat tumbled and fell, but that green magic was already working, so Grillby set it on fire.

The critter let out a howl, the fire suddenly lighting up high and bright as its magic mixed with his. There was a blaze of green and a cloud of oil-slick smoke and then it was over. Wild magic couldn’t heal when it had nothin left to heal up.

“Well,” Gaster offered sorta lamely, “At least we didn’t have to do that nine times.”

“You  _ knew  _ it had  _ magic _ .”

“Well I didn’t  _ know _ . But I sorta figured, given how much of a heyday it seemed to have had in the valley the riflemen pointed us through.”

“And you couldn’t have said something?”

“I figured you were thinking the same thing.”

Grillby sighed and sorta fell off his feet, sittin hard on the ground. He wasn’t mad - not mad in any way that mattered anyway. It was more the kind of anger that welled up in a body when they just got out of an almighty scare they hadn’t been expecting. Besides, Gaster was right, all the signs of the mountain lion being a cut above the rest had been there. What cat preys on a group of longhorns without the scars to prove their gaul, and still has enough spite in it to follow a man back nearly all the way to the homestead where there’s guns and people and all sorts of bad news? 

Gaster ruffled around in his saddlebags for a minute and then mosied over to Grillby, sinking down in the grass beside him. He offered him a small bottle.

“First snakes, now snake oil?” Grillby asked, managing to round up some of his sense of humor.

Gaster sorta rolled his eyes, “Do I look like a snake oil salesman to you? Just take the damn bottle.”

Grillby did, taking a swig of what he immediately decided was the worst tasting stuff he’d ever had in his entire life. It stuck to the inside of his throat like molasses and tasted about what he figured licking a train engine would taste like. Made his fire flare right up hot, and there was an itch in his arm where there had been pain. 

“Got it off a druggist on my way north. They were sorta giving them out for free, seemed like some kinda promotional thing,” Gaster shrugged, “Could probably kill a horse, but it’s mostly alcohol so you should be fine.”

“Glad you’re looking out for my best interests.”

“You’d rather I just let you bleed all the way back to the AD?”

Grillby chuckled, “I reckon not.”

Gaster sat there for a moment like he had something to say, and then finally muttered, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For gettin angry and running off on some fool’s errand,” Gaster looked at the ground like he was all cut up inside, “Guess you probably figure you’re still getting bit by my mistakes.”

Grillby looked at him a long moment, and he didn’t know exactly what he should be saying. More so he was regretting what he’d said earlier, and sorta wishing he hadn’t said it at all. Because the more he thought about it, more and more he thought he was being unfair. Gaster wasn’t wrong after all - Grillby always had a choice to follow. And Gaster always had a choice to follow him into trouble as well. 

“Better I get bit than you get killed,” Grillby said finally, “Besides, you always come running when I need you - even when I don't know I need the help. Reckon I'm not much of anything if I can't repay the favor."

He extended his hand out to Gaster, and after looking at it for a second like it weren’t really there, Gaster took it. They helped each other stand up, and then walking together they made it back to their horses. They rode up out of that rocky little valley, chasing their shadows all the way back to the Dreemurr’s Place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda really like the idea of a world where there are magical creatures - and then there are creatures that have magic just because they live in close proximity to magical creatures. Thus this cougar was born!
> 
> Also, your trivia for the day! Patent Medicine!  
> I'm not gonna go too far into it since it's fun and hilarious but also way too much for me to cover, but the little bottle that Gaster gave Grillby at the end there was a patent medicine. Patent Medicines were basically snake oil - some random peddler would come in claiming he had a miracle cure for everything, normally trailing what basically amounted to a circus of people all verifying the stuff works and giving people a good time so they'll buy it. 9 times out of 10 all Patent Medicine was, was someone mixing together different amounts of alcohol, morphine, cocaine, heroin, etc, and passing it off as their one-of-a-kind invention for curing illness. And yes, a lot of time patent holders would offer free boxes of the stuff to "druggists" [doctors, drug store clerks, etc] to just hand out so people would get hooked on it. It was a wild time being a snake oil salesman, I tell you what. 
> 
> Oh! Some patent medicine you might've [or might not have] heard of before, for frame of reference - Laudanum, Clark Stanley's Snake Oil Liniment, Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup, Merchant's Gargling Oil, Dromgool's Bitters - not ringing any bells? How about Coca-Cola, Dr. Pepper, and 7-Up? The world is absolutely nuts guys I love it. Like I'm sure everyone has heard Coca-Cola used to have cocaine in it, but for some reason I never drew the connection between it and patent medicine until recently. Absolutely wild.  
> 
> 
> Anyway! If you'd ever like to hear like, some really in-depth information on the craziness of Patent Medicine, I would totally recommend Sawbones Episode 15. Sawbones also has a lot of other episodes on patent medicines that go in-depth on individual creators n shit if you ever get the time to browse through. It's just,,,,,, super interesting. I'm so glad I live in a time where my mom never slipped me heroin because I had chicken-pox.


	16. Fandango!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have a party :)

The roundup came to its end, and just like every year, it was a celebration when it was done. Just about everyone in that little ranch town came out for it or contributed something, or else they wish they were. The town worked just as hard as it played, and they’d worked mighty hard this year, everyone figured. It was going to be a downright fandango, and all folks was invited.

Grillby got help moving out all the tables and chairs from the bar, only keeping a few benches on the sides of the room so folks could sit as the night got long. Every year he volunteered his space, mostly ‘cause it was easier to drag the townsfolk in there than drag all the liquor out to the ranch. And it was closer to most everyone elses’ homes anyhow. There was food prepared, Asgore donating two head of cattle for a big roast. Folks made cakes and pies, toasted up potatoes and beans and corn, and they all threw it together at the waterin’ hole where Grillby had ordered in two large barrels of the hair-curlingest whiskey to come through Fort Chase. Someone brought a fiddle, Manuel dusted off his guitar and there were a couple ladies playing spoons and the banjo.

They danced, bit ‘ol line dances that were ten, twelve, twenty folks to a row. Even those with fewer limbs for dancing joined in, hovering in place and sparkin magic around like there was no tomorrow. A line of mostly humans struck up doing stomp dances accented with claps and whoops and hollers, and there was a line of monsters that responded in kind with bright magic flashin and swirling in time to the shrieking of the fiddle. And they crossed and mingled and partnered up and danced all over again. Kids was running and screaming about the place, chasing hoops with sticks and dancin with each other and the grown ups. People ate and they drank and it was  _ fun _ .

The band kept the tunes up and comin, every once in awhile some fool or another steppin up with them to yodel off-key tunes and nonsense lyrics that was half wrong and half made up.  _ Arkansas Travelor  _ and  _ Wait for the Wagon  _ trilled themselves all up, and by the end of the night someone asked for  _ Dixieland _ , though Grillby was fairly certain save for him and Gaster there weren’t no one in town who’d ever been southways proper.

Grillby even loosened hisself up, drank a little and laughed a little more and talked to folks, just a-flickerin’ as bright as a candle in a powderkeg. He kicked up dust with a bunch of the hands when they started dancin off against each other, finding himself going toe-to-toe against Gaster in a stomping romp and laughing all the while. Course Gaster was a better dancer than he was, but he was also a few drinks in himself and all giggles and gangly limbs, tripping over his own feet just as much as he kept them.

Gaster said to him halfway through the party when they was both resting after a dance, “Shoot, all this just about makes the hard work worth it.”

And Grillby sorta figured that was the whole point.

Course it weren’t all dancing and music and eatin. It was also competition. You get so many folks in one place they all starts to show off to each other. A few of the cowhands cut outside to show off some lasso skills, there was a shootin’ competition cordoned off on one side of the street and there were a few folks trying to arrange a horse race of some kind though they was having trouble keeping folks sat still long enough to sign up. Grillby had been banned from the rifle shootout two years ago when folks figured out he was about the best monster to ever pick up a rifle, but he still watched and cheered and for a few of his friends who stepped up to the little range and filled the street with the sound of shattering glass bottles.

When night crept over on the town folks started dispersing a bit, kids needing sent off to bed and some of the heavier partiers feeling the day, but the shindig didn’t stop. No, it would likely go to midnight or longer if folks let it, and Grillby didn’t know a year when they didn’t.

The noise-making turned itself back inside the bar where the band was starting to call out special dances. Sweethearts dragged their other halves to the dancefloor where the single crowd whistled and crowed at them. Grillby watched Manuel excuse himself from the band and sorta bashfully ask one of the other cowhands he’d had his eyes on to join him dancin, and Grillby applauded for them when he saw the two step out and dance.

Which was of course Gaster’s queue to sidle over, filled to brimming with liquid courage and cheesing a grin so wide it could split the sky open.

“No.”

“One dance,” Gaster hummed at him, not put off at all.

“I ain’t dancin’ with you, you’re two left feet.”

“We ain’t startin’ till you join us out here, fuego!” Manuel jeered at him, and a few others on the floor already whistled and jawed in his direction, cheering him on. Gaster grabbed ahold of Grillby’s wrist and pulled him to his feet.

“You’re gonna drop me on the damn floor,” Grillby sparked at him fiercely, but his feet was following anyway and he was grinning as well.

“Only if you don’t drop me first,” Gaster laughed at him.

They stumbled onto the dance floor, a pair of idiots who probably looked about as much like they could dance a square as well as a cow could. But Grillby looped his arm in Gaster’s anyhow and when the tune struck up they was off like a gunshot, boots stomping and hats flying. And they just laughed the whole live-long time the music was playing.

_ It's time to run, they'll string me up for all that I've done _

_ I'm going soon, gonna leave tonight, by the light of the moon _

_ I did it all for you, well I hope you know the lengths I've gone to _

_ What's a man to say? They'll be looking for me, should be on my way _

Grillby didn’t figure Gaster could look so tall when of a sudden their arms wasn’t looped together no more and they were hand in hand, spinning in a tight circle, their feet skipping and Grillby nearly spilling himself on the ground more than once. But Gasters arms were strong and when Grillby stumbled, he didn’t fall.

_ I wanted everybody else in the world to know -! _

_ I wanted everyone to know that you're the one for me _

_ I wanted everybody else in the world to know it -! _

_ That I ain't ever gonna let 'em take the life from me _

They stomped and they clapped and they do-si-doed and promonaided and Grillby felt like he didn’t know tail for teakettle as they went, and Gaster looked just as star-stricken. 

_ I've no regrets, I will not ask for your forgiveness _

_ Lower your defense, run away with me and it'll all make sense _

_ I did it all for you, don't spurn me after all I've gone through _

_ No time to rest, I'm gonna find me a life, baby, way out west _

_ I wanted everybody else in the world to know _

_ I wanted everyone to know that you're the one for me _

_ I wanted everybody else in the world to know it _

_ I ain't never- _

The song hit its bridge and slowed down to something like cut time, and Grillby was glad for it because he was half smoke and all sparks, and Gaster looked fit to fall over. So they took the second to just loop arms and walk, sorta turning with the rest of the dancers as they all looked at their sweethearts all bright-eyed and romantic. 

_ I will run but I know that I'm beat _

_ I decided my fate with my deeds _

Grillby looked up at Gaster and was surprised to see Gaster had that same sorta bright-eyed look, and he didn’t know how he felt about it. But whatever Gaster might’ve been thinking, or seeing through those starry eyes, he didn’t speak a word of it. He just sorta smirked and got right back to dancin when the music picked up again.

_ It's time to run, well, I hope you understand what I've done _

_ Run away for you, I'm gonna count the days 'til you make it through _

_ I did it all for you, well, I hope you live the life you want to _

_ My time is spent, baby, please don't tell 'em just where I went _

_ I wanted everybody else in the world to know _

_ I wanted everyone to know you're the one for me _

_ I wanted everybody else in the world to know it _

_ But I ain't ever gonna let 'em take the life from me _

Song ended of course, all songs do, and Grillby felt like he could probably do without dancin for the rest of the night with how plumb tuckered out it left him. Seemed like a fine choice anyway, as the band was playing slower and slower, lettin the couples who’d stayed up late take the mainstay of the dance floor. It was mostly young folks out now, them that wasn’t parents puttin’ their kids to sleep. Even Asgore and his family had checked out a few hours ago, reminding his hands that day after tomorrow they’d be needed back on the ranch to help him drive the herd to Fort Chase for sellin’. Seems they finally laid down the railroad up there and hsi would be the first shipment out to the south country, and he was anxious to get it done to see how it’d all shake out. 

Fixin to be ready just as soon as the last folks started packing up, Grillby meandered himself behind the bar to start washing glasses and serving final rounds. Gaster sat on the counter beside him, sorta watching the crowd that remained with this whole body saggin like it wanted sleep.

“If you don’t wanna ride back up to the Dreemurr place tonight,” Grillby said to him, “I’ve got room here.”

Gaster gave him one of those easy-going smiles and he was fixing to answer, probably with something cute or cheesy or funny, or whatever other thing he’d come up with off the top of his head. Except there was a sudden ruckus outside, the sort of thundering horses kind like a large outfit had just suddenly rode in, ‘cept no one they knew was expecting company. There was a heavy boot that hit the deck outside, and the band’s music died off as the sound of spurs clickin’ kicked up instead. Gaster slipped off the counter slowly and stood just as the saloon doors were kicked open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh. Wonder who that could be?
> 
> Also nothing brings my heart more joy than being back on my bullshit writing a dance/music chapter. This is becoming a Tolkein-esque brand for me.


	17. Fluke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet the Higgins Gang

Six men walked through that door, one-by-one, spewing trouble and intent like the smoke off a bonfire. They jangled and chimed with the heavy thud of their footsteps, spurs and ammunition glinting in the low light. Pistols and rifles were holstered, but the thongs were off most of the holsters, readying them up for a quick draw. Anyone could see they was here for a fight, and they didn’t reckon on leaving until they’d had one. The lead man was a lean salt-n-pepper fellow, streaks of grey bleeding silver through his hair and in some of his mustache. The man close behind him looked much the same, though a little younger without so much grey. He was the only one in the band that was unarmed, ‘cept for a long-knife strapped to his belt, and there was a spark deep set in his eyes that sorta flickered when he looked around. 

Grillby knew magic when he saw it. Where he’d come from the humans had called it being Fluked. Gaster had always heard it called Devil-Souled, and in the old world they’d called them Mages. Whatever the word for it, all folks knew magic that walked with men with intent like this - that was trouble. The deadly kind. Those few folks still in the bar crept back, crowded against the sides of the walls like there was any protection there, though too scared to try to escape past the men for fear of making a wrong move and kicking off a gunfight.

“Can I help you gentlemen,” Grillby asked them, feeling a shiver of nerves creep its way up his back. He had his shotgun under the counter, he had his magic, but he didn’t figure there was anyone else in the building that was armed ‘cept maybe a few of the monster folk here that might be protective enough of their kin to bristle magic if it came to fighting. Of course, there was Gaster as well.

“Sure, you can help me," the salt-and-pepper man spoke. Grillby hadn't gotten a good look at his face before, but the voice he recognized - this was Tom, the man who'd stopped them out on the range, "See, me and my boys, we've been thinking an awful lot since we last met up," he jabbed a thumb in the direction of one of the men behind him, a man with a fresh scar up the side of his face that looked a hell of a lot like the splinters from an exploded rifle, "That was a mean trick you pulled."

"I was being shot at," Grillby answered mildly, keeping his hands plainly on the counter where they could be seen. 

"Fair. That's fair," Tom said, and he walked a bit closer to the bar, his band following after him, spurs clickin, "You was just actin' in self defense. I got no hard feelings on that. But you see, that trick of yours it got me thinking. See, it looked mighty familiar."

He stopped maybe ten paces from Grillby, his mustache tipped up in a smirk, "You ever heard of a man named Salem Higgins?"

"Can't say I have."

"Shoot, this far up north, most of you nice folks here probably ain’t heard of him,” Tom continued, looking pretty as a prized peacock, smug like he’d won a game no one else knew he was playing, “He was a train robber of the nastiest sort. Rode with a big outfit. Now, I wasn’t riding with him when he met his maker, but Cain-” he sorta ushered to the Fluked fellow standing shortly behind him, “-well, he was there when the Higgins Gang met the outlaw Hellfire. Way I hear it told, ‘ol Salem shouldda had Hellfire dead to rights, what with him being the faster draw. But Hellfire had this trick see, they’d sorta snap their fingers-” Tom snapped his fingers, pointing in Grillby’s direction like he’d drawn a gun, “And all the gunpowder in your bullets would just go up in smoke.”

“Sounds like a nasty individual.”

“Sure was, Mister. ‘Course I don’t gotta tell you twice do I? You’ve got them wanted posters. Five thousand dollars is a lot for one feller,” Tom smiled at him again, showing off a row of tobacco-stained teeth and the kind of wily look of someone who was gettin’ to the point of a matter they thought was incredibly interesting, “So, I figure I’m here to kill two birds with one stone, if you catch my drift.”

He said this, and all six men drew up their pistols, pointing them in Grillby’s direction. Grillby didn’t move, but there was a sort of flutter in the center of his chest where his soul sat, and he couldn’t tell if he was scared or excited. 

“I get that bounty on you,” Tom said, “And I finally kill the son of a bitch that shot my Pa off the side of that train. And just my luck, we get your reverend friend here as well. I say this is a mighty fine evening.”

“Mighty fine,” Grillby said pleasantly, and the grin sorta twisted itself off Tom’s face like he didn’t expect Grillby to be so agreeable, “I do got a question for you though. Say I am your Hellfire outlaw, and I got the nasty habit of lighting you on fire before you pull the trigger on your gun. What’s stopping me from killing everyone of you where you stand? You, Tom Higgins, got a lot of rounds on that belt of yours.”

“Sure I do. But Cain don’t,” Cain Higgins glared in Grillby’s direction, that flicker of magic behind his eyes, and with it a hell of intent Grillby had never felt before, the stifling kind like a hand squeezing shut on your soul. And Tom said, “And I reckon he’s a lot faster on the draw with that magic than you.”

Faster? Grillby had no idea. He’d be forced to admit there weren’t many people he’d had to draw on that demanded a contest of magic, and the few times he had his magic had been a hell of a lot stronger than theirs, so it didn’t rightly matter if he were slower or not. But he’d never gone toe-to-toe against  _ human  _ magic before, and just standing in the same room as Cain had him sure he had no chance. Now his mind was casting about for a way out, and he wasn’t sure he could see one. Say he was lucky and Cain Higgins missed his spell? Well there were five men training guns in his direction. 

“So how about it parson,” Tom said, waving that pistol of his at Gaster, and it was only then that Grillby remembered the monster was still standing there. Like Grillby he’d gone stock-still, like doing so much as breathing would set off the dynamite that’d just been thrown into the room, “Why don’t you give us a sermon. Read this feller his last rights before we scatter his dust between here and Kingdom Come.”

Gaster looked at Grillby.

“Unless you’d like to join him, that is.”

Well, Gaster reached up his hands and sorta fumbled for the little black bible in his breast pocket. He looked at the Higginses, thumbing through the pages sorta shakily, “I-I... U-uhm-”

Gaster seemed to find the page he’d been looking for, and when he did he cast another scared look up at the Higgins gang. His free hand sorta swept back to grasp the bar, like he was scared he was gonna faint over. Gaster looked over at Grillby again.

“I-I-i’m sorry I...” he gave Tom another fearful look, and Grillby thought maybe he was laying it on a little thick, “M-m-malachi 4:1, f-for behold the Lord s-said uhm -”

Gaster took a steadying breath, and then said clearly, that fake stutter gone, “Go to hell.”

A lot of things happened all at once, the first being that Gaster’s free hand dropped to his hip and that Colt Revolver cleared leather by the time Tom Higgins remembered Hellraiser never worked alone. 

Grillby lunged for Gaster, grabbing him by the duster and dragging him over the bar counter and slamming the both of them flat against the ground. There was an almighty racket of shots fired and screaming and breaking glass, and Grillby had to imagine that all the folks who didn’t want part of a gunfight was bailing out of the place any way they could and he didn’t blame them. As it was he was lunging for the shotgun under the counter, and by the time he put his hands on it Gaster had already sprung to his feet and was shooting again. Glass rained down on Grillby’s shoulders as he jammed a shell into his shotgun and sprung up as well.

He got a glimpse of everything. The townsfolk of Deadwood, those left when the men had walked in, were scattering just as fast as they could. A few had shields of magic sparking like they could do much more than break a stiff wind. Some folks had taken a dive out a couple of the windows while most others scattered towards the door, trying to get outside and away from the gunfire and close quarters. There were three men on the floor, dropped by Gaster’s quick shooting. Tom Higgins had charged out to one side, shooting like mad while he was running and missing most every shot. Cain hadn't moved, though his eyes was sharp and bright with color, and he stuck out his hand towards Grillby. Grillby tensed up his shoulders and squeezed the trigger on his shotgun. About the same time that gun bucked in his hands, Gaster kicked him hard in the side, and Grillby went tumbling out of the way just as Cain Higgens let loose the brightest blast of magic Grillby had ever seen in his life.

Something like a lightning strike surged out from the man’s fingertips, lighting up the whole room in an eye-burning glow, and Gaster, standing where Grillby had been, took the full force of it to the chest. It slammed him up against the shelves, blasting what few intact bottles remained apart. The arc of light and ripping magic would’ve gone on longer, except Grillby’s shot had still sprayed in Cain’s direction, and the magic cut off when Cain felt that buckshot sting his shoulder. Gaster slumped to the ground behind the bar counter.

Grillby tore to his feet, and never mind that he’d dropped his gun when he landed. He was all hellfire and black smoke, and he reached back into that wellspring of magic he so rarely used and he fired, and Cain could have met his kin in hell for all that white flame that came for him - and any normal man would’ve been fit for ashes, but Cain Higgins was Fluked. He stuck his hand out to meet the fire and it forked around him, curling into vicious sparks around some sorta shield. But Grillby didn’t much care, ‘cause all the shields in the world couldn’t save a man from heat, and Grillby was angry enough to boil that man alive in his own blood. He stormed closer, wrappin that fire up around Cain Higgins so he had no way of escaping it, and the light was so bright and the heat so intense that the man was coughing and wailing behind that pretty little shield.

Movement at the side of the room, and Grillby remembered Tom was still there. He heard the two shots that came for him, but Tom was aiming through a haze of heat, the fierce brightness makin everything even harder to see still, so Grillby felt those shots smoke his side but nothin solid hit him. It was a distraction though, and his magic faltered just a second as he looked over at Tom, suddenly torn between two targets he hated in equal parts. Cain threw that shield forward, knocking Grillby off his feet, and the man scrambled up. But he was laid up bad, wheezin through lungs that had taken deep breaths of scorched up air, and it was all he could do to bolt for the saloon door. And Tom, seeing all his magic go running out that door, lost his courage right quick. He followed after his brother, half blind from the smoke and sudden dimming of the light when Grillby’s flow of fire had stopped.

Now, Grillby could’ve chased after them both and gave them hell, but as soon as those men was out the door, all he could think about was Gaster. He scrabbled just as fast as he could to Gaster’s side, calling his name and not getting any answer, but the fool wasn’t dust yet so that was good news. But he was hurting, hurting bad. That magic hit him across the ribs and clawed its way across his bones, and through the seared holes in his shirt and coat Grillby could see cracks and burns and bleeding magic. He breathed but it was with an awful rasp, and came with the creak of splintered parts that wasn’t supposed to be separated enough to rub against each other. And Grillby didn’t know what to do. He’d never seen magic so strong it could lay Gaster low with one strike - hell he wasn’t sure he’d seen Gaster so laid up in his whole life. And he weren’t no healer neither, and he weren’t thinking right. His eyes just kept getting caught on those broken bones poking out through Gaster’s shirt like he’d never seen hurt before in his whole life. The sense had gone stampeding out from his head and all he could do was flicker and hold Gaster’s hand like it could do any good, and he was starting to shake. Panic started coming up inside him, a rare feeling he’d long thought he was immune to, and it tied his thoughts up in tangles.

Then he heard someone calling for him, and the pounding of hooves. Vera came bursting into the cracked up ruins of his bar. She paused long enough to swear at the bodies on the floor and the scorches on the hardwood before runnin over, “Grillby! There’s fire at the AD! We -  _ shit _ .”

She must not’ve seen Gaster around the bar when she’d come in, cuz now that she’d crossed over to Grillby she stopped in her tracks, staring down at the mess of the monster she’d worked with all month.

“I don’t know what to do,” Grillby admitted, his mind finally kicking itself into something like working.

Vera cursed again, wringing her hands in the kind of way a person does when they’ve got no idea what to do with them, even though they should be doing good. But she latched onto an idea and said, “I ain’t worth much for magic but I know a bit of a green spell the wife taught me - take my horse, and you hurry up to the Dreemurr’s place. I’ll - I’ll do something here,” then with a bit more determination she decided, “He’ll be here when you get back, partner.” 

Vera sunk down right at Gaster’s side and sort of splayed her hands out, and half praying and half muttering some odd spell words that made the air wrinkle when she spoke them, dim green magic started glowing around her hands. Now Grillby sure as hell didn’t want to leave, but he trusted Vera, and that green magic was worlds better than anything Grillby could’ve done. So he got up and ran, mounting up he spurred that horse down the road, riding at a near gallop through Deadwood’s main street. Way off in the distance he could see the bright smear of color as the ranch burned and knots tied themselves up in his stomach.

The AD-Ranch was a hellish blaze when Grillby got there. There was livestock running and hands shouting as they tried their best to get them under control. The barn and stables were catching fire, along with part of the corral, but the biggest blaze by far was that of the homestead. Rolling flames had licked their way upwards from the ground floor somewhere and they were now reaching hungry hands up at the night sky from the roof on the left side of the building. There was a few monsters scrambling around in front of the homestead, magic shimmering as they tried to stamp it down some, but it wasn’t doing much. Right out in front of them porch steps there was a silhouette, and if it weren’t for them curling horns Grillby wouldn’t have known it was Asgore, small and crumpled as he looked on the ground.

Grillby didn’t even give the horse a chance to stop before he was swinging out of the saddle and he hit the ground running. He knew Vera had got him expecting him to somehow put the fire out, and he was sure he could - hell he could put out a campfire with just a little gumption and the flick of his wrist - but he’d never had to deal with a blaze so large before. He looked up at the fire, and he felt the heat that dwarfed his own, and everything seemed so overwhelming. Like he’d step up to that building and get sucked up in it and just become a house fire for a while.

He stood in front of the porch and sorta stretched his hands out, and stretched his magic out with it, imagining like he could make a giant lasso and wrangle all that mess into one place, and the fire responded. It sorta leaped off the farthest corners of the building, fighting with Grillby’s guidance and it’s own nature to just burn however it pleased. Then heeding his magic it started to stamp itself out, writhing down into a puff of smoke and sparks. It didn’t leave the house undamaged. There was scorches in the burnt-out windows, one wall looked like it was about to fall in, and there was billowing smoke in rooms where some of the more flammable things like clothes and blankets had been. But the home was still mostly intact, and it could be repaired. Reasonably assured the homestead wouldn’t fall in on itself just as soon as he looked at it funny, Grillby moved on to the smaller fires on the rest of the property. When he was done he took stock of the ranch.

Fire damage aside, things seemed to be mostly intact, at least on a passing glance. One of the corral gates had either been knocked in or kicked in, which had let out some of the livestock that had been penned there, and that was what the remaining hands were roping and chasing down now. There had been no stampeding, and none of the hands at least seemed to be injured, though all of them weren’t here. About half the ranch hands had been in town when whatever had happened, happened, and given there were gunmen about, he didn’t altogether blame them for not coming running when the AD lit up. What worried him though was that the form he’d recognize as Asgore was in fact both him and his wife, collapsed on the ground in front of their burnt up property, and not a kid in sight. Preparing himself for the worst, Grillby walked over to the Dreemurrs.

They were a mess. Even in the dim light it was plain to see they’d been through hell. Soot and ash stained, burns singeing up their fur, the fire had probably caught them sleeping. Toriel was wheezing, seemed like she’d gotten a good bit of smoke in her lungs, but she was crying still and hanging onto Asgore like she couldn’t stand. Asgore held her, and there was an almighty wrath and sorrow in the magic mantled over his wide shoulders. Coming up close to them, Grillby could see he’d been shot and he was still bleeding. Grillby knelt down beside them like he could do any good, and Asgore looked at him, the magic behind his eyes fierce and burning.

“Asgore,” Grillby asked, “Where are the kids?”


	18. Trouble at your Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the fire finally stokes.

Dawn was working its first colors into the horizon by the time Grillby finally made it back to town, down-to-the-soul weary and flickering low. Slowly, meticulously, he set up Vera’s horse in the town stable, making sure it was fed and watered and brushed down after so hard a night it’d had. The action was mechanical, and he sorta needed that right now. Just taking care of a horse, not thinking, not worrying. Just doing something. Ash gave him a curious look from the stall she was in, like she was wondering why he’d been gone all night with someone else’s horse instead of riding off with her like he always did. When he was done, Grillby walked slowly back to the wreck of his bar. 

Someone had clearly been working while he was gone. The three outlaws that had been gunned down had been moved, and a good bit of the glass that had exploded itself across the floor had been swept up - though there was still the glimmer of fine chips of glass in some places on the hardwood. Not that the prettying up had done the place much good. There were bullet holes all over the back wall and most of the bottles that had been stored behind the bar counter were gone - he only had two left and one of those glasses was cracked from a fall. Two of the shelves were busted up to splinters from that blast of magic Cain had done, and there was a twisting scorch in the ceiling where the magic had arced and vented upwards. There was a ghost of a silhouette on the floor where Grillby had tried to burn Cain and failed, and the smears of rusted brown from where the men Gaster had shot had bled into the floor.

Grillby scrubbed his face, his tired mind clutching at what he was supposed to do about it. But then again, why bother with the mess? With a deep, soul-sick bitterness he thought of how many folks had been in the room when Tom Higgins had announced he knew Grillby was an outlaw, and he wondered how much longer those same folks would tolerate him in their town.

There was a creak in the wood over his head and Grillby looked up at it sorta stupidly, like it surprised him. There was someone upstairs.

He didn’t bother stepping quietly as he found the stairs at the far back of the building and took them up. He was in a mood like hell, and if anyone were there with bad intent, well, he’d have something to answer them with. But as soon as he got up the stairs he knew that weren’t the case. The upstairs of his bar was where he lived, a two-room flat that was mostly just a room with a bed and a room with a small kitchen. As soon as you walked up the stairs you could take in the whole of the place, and in that sweeping glance Grillby saw it was Vera and her wife Tillie who’d been moving around up here. Vera was sittin in the chair he kept upstairs for reading in, looking done in for how tired she was. Tillie had an arm on her shoulder, speaking quietly, “You did good, V. But you should’ve known better. You’re not cut out for magic.”

“I had to do something, Till.”

“You shouldda got me sooner, is what you shouldda done,” Grillby could recognize a smile in Tilllie’s voice, “You did good though.”

Grillby walked up to them and looked just past them to his bed where they’d laid Gaster down to rest, rightly figuring it’d be too much to move him out to the Dreemurr place until he’d healed up some more. He hadn’t woken, and Grillby figured he wouldn’t wake for a while. Tillie and Vera both had worked healing magic on him as best they could, but they were neither doctors nor mages, and so could only do so much. There was still cracks all up on Gaster’s ribs, though the big breaks had healed up smaller, and most of his burns were gone. That creaking wheeze was gone from him, and he didn’t seem to be in any pain as he slept.

“Sorry for takin’ your seat Grillby,” Vera said, “My joints ache something awful.”

Grillby frowned at her, but not because he was upset. He asked, concerned, “Is that because of the healing?” and she nodded to him.

“It’s a human blessing,” Tillie hummed, “That sometimes we can just up and decide to do things we shouldn’t be able to. Takes a determined spirit, and a strong one - but it don’t keep us from consequences.”

Well, Grillby looked on the two of them with no small bit of fondness, that they’d put themselves out just to do what they could to keep Gaster from the brink. He crossed to his closet where he kept for himself a few folded blankets, and he held onto one of them for a moment, heatin it up before tossing it over Vera’s shoulders, hoping it would help soothe the aching some. She sighed into it, and Tillie thanked him.

“I don’t got much,” Grillby said quietly, “But you’re both welcome to it. I can make you some coffee if you’d like.”

“Dear don’t worry yourself over it,” Tillie said, “You look done in yourself.”

“Will he be okay?”

Tillie thought a moment before saying, “Monster bodies are so much more resilient than human ones. He looks rough now but give him time to rest and some good food to eat,” she gave him a warm smile, “And good company to keep his spirits up. He’ll be on the mend in no time.”

There was a silence that passed between the three of them, and Grillby just watched Gaster breathe like he was scared he’d just up and decide to stop.

“Did you manage to put the fire out at the Dreemurr place?” Vera asked.

“Yeah. Took me too long to get out there though. The place is gonna need a lot of work.”

“How are Toriel and Asgore?”

Grillby frowned and bowed his head just a bit, “They’re not doing well,” he sighed out a breath of smoke and said, “They took the kids.”

Vera swore, and Tillie covered her mouth with her hands, scared and not sure what to say.

“Don’t know what them fellers want with them,” Grillby said gravely, his fists clenching at his sides as the anger he’d had bubbling deep down in his chest started risin up, “But they took them. When I left Manuel was trying to round up a posse to make tracks to the Fort.”

“What about the shootists Asgore hired on?” Vera asked.

“Dead mostly. Seems the whole group of outlaws swooped in on them before splittin up and handling their business here. Most of them went after the AD.”

“The rest came here,” Tillie whispered when Grillby left it unsaid, “Grillby, what did they want with you?”

It occurred to Grillby then that Tillie and Vera hadn’t been there last night when everything went south. Of course Vera had been at the AD - she’d turned in early with a few of the other hands when the Dreemurrs went home, and Tillie had headed back to her homestead around the same time. There was a long moment where Grillby was mighty tempted to lie.

“Nothing I didn’t deserve,” he said instead, too tired to bother with working in half-truths, “A long time ago, me and Gaster ran together as outlaws. Those men who came in last night were some of them we left on our backtrail after we hit the same train and shot up a bunch of their riders. Thomas and Cain Higgins is the sons of Salem Higgins, who I killed five, six years back.”

The two girls looked at him like he was speaking in tongues, but he kept going, “When they met us out on the range they recognized me, since I’m a damn fool and my magic ain’t changed since the day I stopped running. So Tom figured he’d come and kill me while he was here doing... whatever the hell else he’s got planned. Gaster was trying to figure that out.”

He gave Vera a withering look, “ ‘S why he was so worked up about them being cattle thieves the other night. And he might be right. You figure a hit like that on the ranch, they would’ve stampeded the cattle from here to Timbuktu so they could round it up on their own later. But outside of spooking some of the stock in the corral, they left them alone and took the kids instead.”

Grillby shook his head, “Asgore’s angry enough to see red, but he’s also laid up bad, and so is Toriel. Supposing she can even find that needle of hers in the wreck of her house, it’ll still take them awhile to get patched up enough to ride out somewhere. Days, a week maybe. And it’ll take Manuel a few days to ride out to Fort Chase and get any help, and a few days back. And they'll be following old sign and riding hard to catch up."

The more he talked, the angrier Grillby felt. It was boiling in the front of his chest now, turning his fire hot and burning, and there was smoke in his mouth. It was around then that Grillby remembered his old rifle was under his bed, and he had plenty of ammunition left for his shotgun. He looked at Gaster, at how banged up he was, and that sealed it.

"Vera," Grillby said, "I'm fixing to start some trouble."

"Well Grillby," she responded to him evenly, like she'd seen his thoughts before he'd started speaking, "I s'pose now's about the best time for it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the gaps in posts but! I'm back on the wagon again :3  
> The allure for drawing a bunch of western au stuff instead of just sitting and writing it is so, so pretty though lol


	19. Smoke Follows Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which smoke follows fire

If Grillby were smart, he would’ve waited at least long enough to get some sleep, or maybe even long enough to write some sort of letter or will, as surely him riding out alone meant he likely wasn’t coming back. But Grillby wasn’t smart right now, all he was was angry, and anger doesn’t wait long enough for it to simmer itself down before acting. So it was only a few hours after sun-up by the time he’d packed up what he thought he might need into his saddlebags and headed out. There were a few folks about town when he rode out, and they watched him with concern and fear. Surely it weren’t hard to figure out where he was going with two rifles and a shotgun holstered up on his saddle. But no one moved to stop him, which was good, cause Grillby would hate to burn someone just to get them out of his way.

Grillby figured the outlaws had at least six hours on him, so he’d have to ride hard to either catch up or keep up. But he’d get those kids back or die trying, he decided that now.

He picked up the outlaws’ sign down the road from the Dreemurr’s place, and he had a hell of a time telling heads for tails what direction they went. He cursed how bad he was at following tracks, and how he hadn’t practiced it much in the several years he’d been in Deadwood. But he found his direction and he followed it, starting Ash at a canter out across the range.

The hills and valleys that for the past few weeks had been inviting and homely to him were now ash and smoke on the edge of his vision. No more were his thoughts on peaceful country and fading gently into the background. His blood was all hellfire and there was only room for that. As the day wore on and the trail wound on in front of him, whenever he felt himself cooling, he’d think about Gaster, and about those poor kids, and Toriel barely able to cry into Asgore’s arms with how burnt up her breathing had got, and he boiled back over again.

There was some irony in him that remembered the times in his life when he’d been chased down by men with this same intent, the burning desire to do him nothing but harm. And never a more wicked feeling had Grillby ever let himself succumb to. But he needed wicked right now, and he needed harm. He needed everything he could get. The way he figured it, they’d killed three men last night and wounded at least one more, and when Gaster had first come north he said they’d come with an outfit of twenty. He had sixteen men to deal with, and one of them Fluked, and wounded, and probably all the more dangerous for it. It would be hell trying to get those kids back in one piece.

The day passed on into night, and Grillby was forced to stop. He was tired and saddle sore, and in the darkness he was losing the trail. Besides, it was getting clear to him the riders had gone straight into the heart of Wild Country, and he didn’t figure on blazing a trail through there alone at night. He didn’t bother making a camp, only picketed his horse so she could graze and rest as she pleased, and then finding himself a tree to climb up on, he tied himself to a sturdy branch and wrapped himself up in his duster to sleep, rifle in his hands, taking special care to block out his light from view. He was fixing for a long night he knew, but he needed the sleep. There was nothing else for it.

He slept for awhile without dreams.

Grillby woke up well before dawn, of a sudden and alert like he needed something.

It confused him at first, ‘cause he knew some time had passed, and bleary with sleep he couldn’t figure out why he’d snapped awake. There was an instinct telling him not to move though, something hardwired into him from his years of running from trouble. Whatever had woken him was something he should be wary of. So he didn’t move where he was, looking around with his eyes only for fear of moving in a way that would make his fire more visible. 

He didn’t see any movement, and he didn’t hear nothing. But he saw Ash was standing with her ears pricked up like she was paying attention to something. She must’ve made some noise and that’d woken him up. Watching her though, she didn’t look spooked like there was some predator in the brush. Looked more like she was looking after another horse. His grip tightened on his rifle, feeling all the old notches he’d carved in its stock from when he’d been outlawing, and taking comfort in the reminder of his skills now. If there were horses out here, there were surely people as well. He’d not seen any wild horses on the Dreemurr’s land, and he hadn’t hit Wild Country yet.

Grillby waited and watched, and finally started catching noise behind him. It was about then that Ash nickered, and Grillby felt confused. It must be a horse she recognized? But who in the hell would follow him from town? Just about everyone he could think of was either too laid up to follow, or heading in the wrong direction. Grillby picked at the knot holding him in place on the branch and then slipped out of the tree, landing on the balls of his feet. He sorta crouched there, looking off in the direction he’d been hearing noise and spotting a horse riding slowly in his direction. The rider was slumped forward in the saddle, hardly sitting up but persistent in where they were going. 

The rider spotted him flickering low near the ground and called out with a voice that winced, “Crissakes Grillby, I knew you weren’t the brains of the operation, but riding out against the Higginses all by yourself? You got a deathwish?”

Grillby felt his fire get hot and spiteful, and he was standing and storming forward, “Gaster, go home.”

Well, Gaster stopped that buckskin horse in its tracks and kinda looked down at Grillby all curious, “I ain’t got a home.”

“Then get back to the AD,” Grillby sparked furiously, looking up at Gaster with his hands on his sides like he was staring at a miscreant kid, “How the hell you even got out here without fainting away is beyond me.”

“I ain’t that banged up.”

“What you holding your ribs for then?”

Gaster sorta looked down at himself, at the free hand he had balled up against his coat. Kinda lamely he said, “I’m... a little sore.”

“Is that all.”

Gaster looked down at him, looking dog tired and in a world of hurt. But there was hard magic in him and a mighty stubbornness, and he said, “If you’re getting killed, I’m getting killed with you. Like hell I’m just gonna wait and sift your dust outta the sand later.”

“You’re gonna slow me down.”

“Then go on without me and I’ll catch up,” Gaster scowled, “But I’m comin along.” He eyed the ground, trying to figure how badly it’d hurt him to slide out of the saddle, and Grillby was starting to feel awful desperate. That image of that lightning strike pinning Gaster up against the wall had burned itself far deeper into Grillby’s mind than he’d realized, and he wasn’t keen on seeing it played out in front of him again. That panicked, soul-freezing feeling he’d got looking down at him when he’d been wounded so bad... 

But he also knew a losing battle when he saw one.

Grillby sighed out a long breath, “S’pose smoke does make a habit of following fire.”

“For better or worse,” Gaster agreed, looking mighty relieved Grillby had dropped the fight so fast, “Now hold still, I need to borrow your shoulder.”

“How you gonna kill outlaws if you can’t even get off your damn horse?”

“Would you like a demonstration? I can start with you.”

“Oh shut up and hold still before I drop you.”

They slept without a fire and on the ground that night, sorta finding peace with each others’ company. They set out first thing in the morning, crossing into Wild Country just before sun up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the world kinda exploded huh?  
> After some polling with some of my readers on Tumblr, and also some soul searching on my end, I'm going to continue posting this dumb little fic [the alternative being holding off until the world cools down a little]. Because sometimes a little distraction in necessary when your mental health is doing a dive. Everyone stay safe. Do what you can with what you have. 
> 
> If you would like to donate to BLM but you don't have the means to, there's a rad Youtube video whose sole purpose is generating ad revenue that will be donated, along with tons of suggestions on how to maximize the revenue Youtube gives things like this. [I've been keeping it playing on my laptop while writing/drawing, and for those of you that follow me that spend lots of time on the computer, you might find a similar interest in it!]
> 
> [You can find it here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bCgLa25fDHM)


	20. Sights on the Setting Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we pursue the Higgins Gang

Now, Wild Country is a grand name that weren’t altogether true, since calling anything ‘wild’ sorta implies it ain’t been lived in, when in reality it's just being lived in differently than the new folks coming in was used to. Fact of the matter was, humans and monsters had been living out in Wild Country since long before the immigrants came over the sea and started cluttering up the land. Sorta messing them all up together, most of the folks moving west just called them Indians, though from what little Grillby had heard about them they were all different nations of all different folks. Around this region most folks knew of the Sioux, Cheyenne, Crow and Iowa, but the further out into Wild Country you went in whichever direction, the nations were different and called themselves different, and they wanted to be respected as such.

Grillby didn’t know much about the Indians. Mostly, he hadn’t ever needed to. All his past sins had been against the folks heading west, not the ones that already lived there - him and Gaster had always been after the kinda currency you could grab from a bank, tradegoods and resource meant nothing to him until after he'd settled. He knew some of the nations fought more than others did, and he knew some were in the habit of takin trophies from that fighting, which was a thing more humans found frightening than monsters, given how monsters never really left much of value behind unless it was possessions; of course, taking trophies of their catches and kills was the habit of a lot of monsters and men that come from across the sea as well. Anyways, Grillby knew up here in the plains they followed the buffalo, so as long as you were avoiding the big rivers of the critters that roamed the plains, you could then avoid some of the trouble that came with figuring out what people were friendly and what people weren’t - most times anyways. 

The most wild thing about Wild Country was the bears and cougars and wolves that lived out here, and all of them used to hunting things much bigger than two men on horseback, which made them an almighty concern. And alongside those any outlaw too hot with the law to live in the territories and states was out here too, biding time and taking souls when they didn't want found. And supposing neither the critters nor the outlaws gave you trouble, you was miles and miles away from food, medicine, or any people you knew could help you. 

You could sometimes travel for days, weeks without meeting another soul - and risk that soul being unfriendly when you met them. Something as simple as a spider bite or a bad cold could kill you out here if you weren’t careful. In summer it was burning hot, winter was a blistering cold, storms came of a sudden on flat land with little shelter, or in canyons ripe for flooding and drowning, and you had no idea where you were going since it hadn’t hardly been mapped yet, and no two maps of the country Grillby had ever seen had looked the same.

Point being, anyone who had something to lose didn’t pass through Wild Country unless it was for a good reason. Outlaws like the Higgins Gang liked using Wild Country as a place to lay low when they were in between scores - and there had been times in their lives when Grillby and Gaster had used the uncharted land to try and leave behind the law when it was following too close, though for the two of them it hadn’t always worked out quite so well, and they weren’t the only ones it hadn’t worked out well for. There was a river that marked the boundary of the AD-Ranch property and Wild Country, and just past the river was the shell of an old burnt out wagon. Whoever had dragged it out here was long forgotten, their worldly effects taken by the elements, their dust more earth than remains. A reminder of what Wild Country was to most people - a one-way trip. 

“Well, the good news is,” Gaster said suddenly as they crossed by the wagon, “We know they’ve got a hole out here somewhere dug out.”

“What makes you think that?”

“They took the kids, didn’t they?” Gaster shrugged - and winced like the movement hurt him more than he figured it would, “If they wanted them kids dead, they would’ve killed them at the house. So they gotta have some safe place out here. Reckon you know any places that might work?”

“Dunno,” Grillby looked out at the planes ahead of them, dotted here and there by outcroppings of hillside and rock that were far larger up close than they looked from here, “I’ve never had a good reason to be out here, always sorta figured trespassers weren’t welcome.”

“Yeah, I ain’t had much work in it neither,” Gaster nudged his buckskin forward, “Well, no use sittin here and staring. Keep an eye on the horizon.”

Gaster led them, keeping an eye on the sign in front of them while Grillby kept his gaze trained out farther. Their pace was slow, mostly so Gaster wouldn’t have to be jostled so much. He’d healed a bit from the rest the night before, probably faster than if he’d been without Grillby’s company. For monsters at least, if a spirit was high then the body healed faster. But he was still probably too hurt to be going on a long rough ride out into perilous country, with nothing but violence waiting at the end of the trail. But Gaster probably figured he had no choice - Grillby was going, and he was gonna follow. So they kept on.

They rode through grasslands that swept at the bellies of their horses, hillsides prickled with cedar and juniper and birch, chasing that trail that’d been left behind. It split on them twice, each time the group splitting in half, looking to lose who might possibly follow them. Perhaps if it had been Grillby alone, they would have. But Gaster was keen to their tricks, he’d seen them enough by now, and persistently he hunted those trails when he lost them until he found them again, and they went on. Even as the hills turned steep around the winding river, and with it the land getting rougher with rock and coarse grass. On the harder ground, Grillby worried they might lose the trail for good, if it weren’t for a few tells lettin them know they were closing in on their quarry. The first being smoke, rising up in the distance, thin and snaking way up in the sky. The second being a bridge they come to, the sort of one-way spot you’d like for a hideaway to make it easy to defend. 

One way in, one way out, and an awful perilous place to be stuck. 

It was just a little rope-and-plank bridge, roughly made and spindly, and the only reason Grillby had any guess you could take a horse across it was that the tracks they’d been following crossed over. As it was, walking Ash up to the bridge the horse stopped not wanting to go, and Grillby didn’t blame her. He swung out of the saddle and, taking up the reins and coaxing her on, managed to get her to walk behind him on the little swaying bridge, but she shook the whole time, and the whole thing jerked and tipped when they moved. Grillby had to admit he was scared as well. It was awful hard to look down at the drop below into what looked to be a small, rocky canyon and not just freeze up on the spot. But they got across, Grillby praising his horse and patting her neck when she stepped onto steady ground. The buckskin Gaster was riding didn’t seem nearly so skittish about the thing as Ash was, and he didn’t even have to dismount to cross - though there were a couple of times where it looked like a stiff wind might knock him into the canyon if he weren’t careful. After crossing, Gaster let out a long whistle, looking over the edge of the drop, “Don’t reckon anyone would climb back outta that one in one piece.”

“It’s good for us though,” Grillby said.

“How do you figure?”

“We run back across this way with trouble on our tails,” Grillby said, “I bet that bridge will burn nice and easy. And anyone trying to follow us will have to find a way down the canyon the long way around before they can catch up.”

They weren’t going much longer when they finally found what they figured must be the outlaws’ hideaway, and the rope bridge started making a little more sense. The other side of the raise they’d crossed was mostly rock and rough grass, though there was a stand of cedar and dogwood about halfway down the other side of the raise that broke up the hillside and kept it from being so steep a drop. And down where those woods hit flat land again was a log cabin looking just as pretty as you please, and it was from there that they’d been seeing the rising smoke. Picketed out there were a little over twenty horses, and loafing about the front, jawing and smoking after their long ride, Grillby counted six men from the outfit. He couldn’t see faces from how high up and away they was, but it weren’t hard to figure out who they were. 

“Alright,” Grillby said, “Let’s leave the horses back a bit and make our way down. See if we can’t get a better lay of them.”

Grillby looked back at Gaster, and took stock of just how tired the monster looked. He was sagging a bit in the saddle, looking awful sore and like he wasn’t looking forward to picking his way down the steep hillside.

“Or, s’pose I could go down by myself,” Grillby offered, “And you could give me cover up here if something goes wrong.”

“That should probably be reversed. You’re the rifleman not me.”

Grillby sorta gave him a skeptical look, “Yeah, and I’m also the one of us who ain’t about to fall to dust off his horse.”

“I ain’t dead yet,” was all Gaster returned with, though he didn’t look too happy about the fact, “Now come on we’re wasting daylight, and you’re easier to spot at night.”

Grillby did as he was told, figuring they were too close to trouble to argue too long about much. They picketed their horses back from the top of the hill so they couldn’t be seen, and then dodging through the waist-high grass they made their way to the stand of trees, and then slower still down the hillside. Grillby was rustier at this than he figured he would be, which was awful exasperating. There was a time five years ago when he could run his way down a hillside like this, making barely a ghost off a noise and leaving little trail to follow. And he supposed he was still better at it than most - at the very least he didn’t go crunching through every bit of underbrush he crossed through. But he was still loud and clumsy, a hell of a lot more so than Gaster who liked to disappear as soon as he sunk in the tall grass, just a shadow sorta flitting down the hillside even for his injuries.

They found themselves a pair of trees to hole up behind and they watched for a while the comings and goings of the campsite - which mostly consisted of a group of layabouts resting easy after what they figured for a successful hit. About a half an hour of watching there and the wind shifted, and Grillby started piecing out bits of conversation, most of it nonsense. 

Gaster whispered to him, “Figure I can get in closer and get what they’re about?”

“Nah you sit still. You get stuck down there and they'd dust you in one hit.”

“I ain’t made of glass.”

“No but you ain’t healed up yet neither,” Grillby flickered a hard frown at him, “Someone hits you in your ribs and you figure you’ll be able to stand up after?”

Gaster looked like he was making to argue but bit it down, seeing the sense. Instead he whispered, “They’ve got a cellar in the back, I can see the hatch for it from here, and it’s guarded. Reckon that’s where they’re keeping the kids?”

“Sounds about as good a place as any,” Grillby said, “How many men you figure they got?”

“Well they’ve got enough horses for a small army,” Gaster scowled, “But I don’t see the guns for it. Figure some of them’s for pack, or for quick riding if they switch out. There’s a wagon down there too - though Lord knows if it came with them or if it was here when they got here.”

“Seven out here now,” Grillby said, counting heads, “And four’s gone inside, and I still ain’t seen Cain or Tom, or the feller they rode out with from my bar - nice shooting by the way. You got three of them.”

“Huh, I was trying for all six.”

“Three outta six ain’t bad when you only had a few seconds to fire.”

“Wasn’t good enough though, was it?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Grillby said, flickering a wide grin at him, “You only missed the ones that mattered.”

“Oh piss off - ain’t like you shot any.”

“I’ll fix that tonight,” Grillby jerked his head in the direction of the hillside, “Come on, let’s get back.”

They split up crawling back up the hill again, mostly ‘cause Gaster moved so much slower. Grillby ducked between trees and bushels of tall grass, keeping as low as he could and moving slow and smooth, trying to catch the feeling of sneaking all shade-like like he used to be able to. He figured he did well enough, cause no one in the camp seemed alerted to his presence. Finally he crested the hill, pulling himself up past a final stand of trees and rounding out of the grass to where their horses were staked - and seeing double. There were four horses standing there, two of them with riders, and they were waiting for him. He didn’t recognize their faces as any he’d seen in his bar the other night, but he reckoned they was a part of the Higgins outfit. They sure looked like they’d been roughing it out in the wilds for the past few months. The guns they had pointed in his direction though looked mighty fine and well-kept, and that was about all Grillby cared to worry about at the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished my longest chapter in this fic so far today at over 5000 words, which probably doesn't sound all that impressive to the folks that read Casting Rain, but given how this thing's chapters average like 1300 words, thats a lot ahah. [That wasn't this chapter though, this chapter was only 2500 words].
> 
> Also! We finally get some info on "Wild Country", or what this story is going to treat as land not yet touched by settlers. In the actual chronology of American history, it wouldn't be during the "Wild West" timeline I don't think, but this is a magical alternative US were monsters exist so I think I can fudge the timeline a little.
> 
> I also! Tried to talk a little bit about the Indian/Native American Nations that would be in my ballpark area for this story, and I hope I handled that in a sensitive way? It's kind of hard to tell how people would prefer to be referenced as or talked about when you have no one to ask directly. I did a lot of forum reading before writing this, so for my vagueries' sake, I think it's okay? But if I ever wanted to write something more involved in the future I think I'd actually reach out to some individuals willing to work with me.
> 
> This was also the part in the story where I had to decide if I was going to have "the Indian chapter" that happens in a lot a lot a lot of westerns, and is generally a trope of the genre. I understand that as a people they played a big role in the culture and rhetoric of the time, because they were a people being actively interacted with [almost wholly negatively]. Which means that a lot of Westerns feel obligated to throw them in at some point - often pretty pointlessly. And I decided I didn't want to be a part of that trend :'D not that most of you probably matter, since from the comments I've read it sounds like most of you guys don't or haven't read westerns on the reg. Which is totally fine. Westerns, especially the older ones / classics, are a product of their time and of their authors and who those authors were writing for. There's a lot of rampant racism and sexism and classism in them, and its a weird task to parse through what I've read and figure out which content involved is indicative of the genre and should be included, and how much of the content is useless/harmful and should be discarded. I hope I'm doing a good job with that, just as a me personally thing.
> 
> This does have me super interested though in the idea of the "Weird West" genre as well as modern westerns, and how they tackle those tropes / stereotypes as well, because I've read exclusively the classics and I have no context. I'm sure there's authors out there who have done tons of research in trying to tackle the gymnastics of a genre that was written racist from the ground up and how that could be improved to salvage the genre as a whole in the future. Or who knows, maybe all those flaws mean the genre shouldn't be salvaged, and this is just one short stop on the road to discovering that and finding out how to conductively leave it in the past? I hope not though! Mainstream media is starting to rediscover vaqueros and black cowboys and indian cowboys, and it would be an absolute shame to remember all the culture behind them and then do away with the genre that they could be written into!
> 
> Anyway I've been rambling for 20 minutes over literally 2 paragraphs worth of barely-there world building information so I'm going to stop now.   
> Thank you for reading!


	21. If You Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have a perilous Q&A

“Don’t you move an inch, feller,” one of the outlaws snarled at him, that Winchester of his pointing dangerously in Grillby’s direction, “We got you dead to rights.”

Grillby calmly did as he was told, humming, “Reckon you do.”

“Hey, Jasper,” the man’s partner said, his own pistol trained on the fire, “You figure this is that barman the Higgins brothers was after?”

“Sure enough, Glen, I figure it is,” Jasper addressed Grillby, looking mighty unafraid sittin up there on his horse, “You know, I thought they was crazy gettin so worked up over some spark monster in town - but you gotta be worth something if you’re stupid enough to follow us out here. You reckon you was gonna take us all on your lonesome?”

Grillby shrugged, “I killed bigger bears with a smaller switch.”

“How well that workin out for you?”

“Oh, better than it could’ve, I figure.”

Glen laughed, an annoying guffaw of a noise that Grillby sorta curled a lip up at, “You’s about to be dust partner. How’s that good news to you?”

“Oh, well that’s ‘cause I’m scared of them Higgins boys,'' Grillby answered smoothly, “Not really scared of you gentlemen though - no offense. Any rifle can kill a monster outright, and that’s not something to be ignored. But see, that Cain Higgins - he’s got the Fluke on him, don’t he? His soul’s all Deviled-up. Reckon he’s got all sorts of nasty magic to work on a feller like me. And after I done scorched him up and almost kilt his brother? And after all that nasty business with ol’ Salem?”

Grillby let out a low whistle, “I reckon he ever got ahold of me, I’d be wishin I was dead long before they’d ever actually let it happen. You know, I heard of a Fluked feller back state-side who could burn your soul right outta you, until you’s nothing but bones left, and then stick it right back in again, so’s you was left walking around on nothin but old bones with no pipes to holler with, stuck like that ‘til he got bored with you. Reckon something like that’d hurt a hell of a lot more than a bit of lead in your belly. You think Cain knows any magic like that?”

Now, Jasper and Glen exchanged a look at that, and Glen was looking mighty pale around the gills.

“But that’s not something you boys gotta worry about is it?” Grillby asked, “After all, ain’t you that’s on the Higgins boys’ bad side. But I am. So if you’d both do a feller a favor? Make sure you shoot me up here. I’d leave the Fluke outta this if I had a choice. I’d be mighty grateful to you.”

Well by now those two boys was unnerved as all hell. For one thing, they hadn’t come across anyone in all their days who took the bad news of getting killed off like it was just a bit of an inconvenience. For another, there was only one thing Grillby ever knew humans to be scared of more than monster magic - and that was _humans_ working magic. So the idea that they might accidentally piss off the Higginses and have a world of magical hell coming their direction - well that was mighty scary to the pair of them. And then there was of course the worry that killing Grillby up here meant making angry the Higgins boys down the hill, a fact Glen pointed out with a nervous stammer to his friend.

Grillby didn’t care about their debating though. He wasn’t fixing to get killed just yet. And besides, he’d only really been buying time for Gaster to get where he’d been going. See Gaster had come up that hill way off to his right at about the time Grillby started mentioning Cain being Devil-souled, and he heard him talking and kept himself low, slipping into the tall grass. Not that it were too hard to stay out of the outlaws’ sites, given they were so cut up about Grillby standing in front of them. Now Gaster had managed to slink over to Grillby’s horse and take down the length of rope he kept on the saddle, and he had himself a lasso tied and ready to go, standing behind the two boys. And he nodded to Grillby.

“Hey fellers,” Grillby called to them, cuttin’ off their bickering before it could get much farther and putting their attention right back on him again, “Reckon you know which one of the two of you is the brains of the operation? You know what, never mind you both look pretty stupid I’m sure it don’t matter.”

Gaster let that lasso fly at about the same time those boys got their guns ready to fire in Grillby’s direction. It caught Jasper ‘round the throat and with one hard yank he was in the dust. And Glen paused just a second to get confused over where the hell Jasper had been swept off to when the knife on Grillby’s belt found a new sheath in his chest.

“Let out some of that slack Gaster, you’ll kill him before we get any use out of him,” Grillby hummed, retrieving his knife and Glen’s gun belt before moving on to help Gaster hog-tie their captive. Then he flipped Jasper over onto his back and stepped down on his chest, leaning a little heat into his weight and filling the air with the smell of singed fabric ready to burn, “Now partner, you gonna sit quiet for a bit, or do I have to do something to keep you from alerting them boys down the hill?”

Now Jasper had hardly gotten his breath back before Grillby was squeezing it out of him again, and he coughed and sputtered at the feeling of Grillby’s boot heel digging into him.

“Cause the way I see it,” Grillby hummed, wiping his knife clean on the shoulder of Jasper’s shirt before slipping it back into his belt, “I could knock you out, but that’d be mighty inconvenient, and the more inconvenient you make my life right now, the shorter I make yours. You understanding me, partner?”

Gaster hovered over his shoulder, disgust curdling his magic up, “We shouldn’t chance it.”

“Nah, he ain’t gonna squeal. He’s smarter than that,” Grillby smiled pleasantly down at Jasper, “Cause I reckon if he does, I’mma take out some of them ribs so he won’t be able to do it twice. That’s one of them fun sorta things about bein’ made of fire. Folks don’t bleed so much around me.”

Of course, this was all something Gaster knew, and had heard before. But Jasper didn’t know Grillby, or rather, he didn’t seem to know Grillby’s work when he ran as Hellraiser, so it was news to him. And he looks almighty scared and small, choking on the weight of Grillby’s boot, and the intent behind his smile.

Feeling he had the outlaw sufficiently scared, Grillby hefted Jasper up onto his shoulder. The man was heavier than he’d figured he’d be, but not unmanageable, and it was a pretty simple trick getting him tied up to the back of his saddle and relieving him of his guns and ammo. Then he saw to the two horses the men had been riding. The way he saw it, it was mighty fine of these boys to supply them with horses to get the kids out with, and he told Gaster as much as he helped the monster mount up on his buckskin.

They rode off back the direction they’d come, Gaster letting Grillby take the lead. When he judged they was far enough away, he started whistling - the sound coming a little thinner than normal given the aches he still carried. It was a song Grillby knew.

“Wh-where you fellers takin me?” Jasper asked in a whimper that was trying its best to sound brave.

“Not far,” Grillby said, “Not far at all. Hey - you ever heard this one? It’s a good song.”

“I don’t -”

“ _Hold my hand - Ooh, baby, it's a long way down to the bottom of the river-_ ” Grillby crooned, keeping his voice low and his words clear. He flickered a wicked grin in Gaster’s direction, “ _Ooh baby, it’s a long way down, a long way down-_ ”

Jasper swore, loudly and impressively, but they were far too far from the outlaw camp for it to count for anything.

_“The wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight_

_Drunk and driven by a devil's hunger_

_Drive your son like a railroad spike_

_Into the water, let it pull him under_

_Don't you lift him, let him drown alive_

_The good Lord speaks like a rolling thunder_

_Let that fever make the water rise_

_And let the river run dry--”_

Now Grillby weren’t a singer - that was Gaster’s skill, not his. But he could hum a tune enough to get it stuck in any fool’s head. And Grillby sure figured he’d gotten the important part of the song across, so he hummed along to Gaster’s whistling as they came to the end of that grassland ridge, right out by that swayin bridge and it’s steep-sided drop, where Grillby reined in his horse and swung out of the saddle. He tied a long length of rope around Jasper’s legs and, grabbing him by the scruff, started dragging him over to the edge.

“So I got some questions for you, my friend,” Grillby said, his voice just as chipper as he pleased, “And I guess I’ll lead off with the most important one.”

Grillby picked up that man by the collar of his shirt, leaving just his toes on the ledge and most of the weight of his body leaning over the side, “Can you swim?”

Jasper swore again, looking wide-eyed and terrified as he cast glances over his shoulder at the drop below him.

“My arm’s gettin’ mighty tired sir, you mind answering the question?”

“S-s-s- _shit!_ You think it goddamn matters if I can swim if I fall from this high?!”

Now Grillby made a show of thinking for a minute and then shrugged, “You know, you’re absolutely right. I’m sure it won’t matter. Them rocks look mighty sharp - oh and uh, thank you for the honest answer by the way partner. Means I might be able to trust you. Now, I got some other questions for you if you’d be so kind as to answer?”

Well, Jasper was downright terrified - and Grillby didn’t blame him. But he was gettin scared mean, and some of that defiant fire was lighting up in him. It happened sometimes, Grillby had seen it before. So it didn’t surprise him much when, next he could speak a word without stuttering, Jasper snarled, “ _Go to hell!”_ with so much venom behind it Grillby was sure if he were a snake he’d be deadly.

But Grillby just sorta snorted a laugh and flashed Jasper a wide, easy smile, “Son, just where do you think I come from?”

And he let go of Jasper’s shirt.

The man didn’t fall far. See, Grillby had that rope he’d tied around the fool’s ankles wrapped around his arm. So Jasper fell about ten feet before it snapped taught and he hit the side of the canyon wall, robbing him of his breath for a minute on the impact. Which was fine by Grillby, it gave him time to talk.

“Hey Gaster!” he hollered, more so Jasper could hear him than any other reason, “This is a sturdy rope here. How long do you figure it’d take for fire to chew through it?”

“Well gee Grillby I’m not sure,” Gaster said, squatting over the edge of the drop and leering down at Jasper with a wide-toothed grin, “Reckon it wouldn’t take too long. Two minutes? Three minutes? You sure burn awful hot.”

“C-c-come on fellers!” Jasper shrieked, finally getting his voice back, “Don’t do this.”

“Three minutes. That ain’t a lot of time.”

“Naw, I figured that’s hardly enough time to say your final prayers. But don’t you worry son, I ain’t no parson but I know some of them versus. I’ll put in a good word for you with the Big Man upstairs - reckon you’ll be going there? Or will a drop like this send you right down to the devil himself? I’m sure I wouldn’t know, I’ve never fallen from this high up.”

“So how about it - Jasper was it?” Grillby asked, “You wanna answer my questions or would you rather I just set this rope on fire?”

“ _Christsakes!_ What do you want?!”

“We saw you fellers had a cellar down there. That where you keeping them kids?"

"Yes!"

"How are they doing?" Grillby let out a couple inches of slack, dropping Jasper of a sudden and making him scream, "Sure would be disappointing to go through all this trouble just to find out you all had half-killed them by the time we got there."

"Sh- _shit!_ They're fine! We ain't done nothin to 'em! W-well 'cept for the red-head tried to bite someone so they got roughed up a little."

"What did you take them for?"

Jasper swore, and rather pathetically he whined, "I don't know."

"That ain't a very good answer there, Jasper."

"I don't know! Them Higgins boys ain't told us much! Well, that Tom’s said an awful lot to that circle of folks he came north with but us that just got hired in don't know much."

"Well you sure signed up for something," Grillby said, messing with the idea of dropping Jasper a bit more but deciding against it for now, "What did you sign up for?"

“He said he needed some good shootists, no questions asked and we’d get five thousand dollars for our trouble once it was done.”

Gaster let out a long whistle, “Damn, is he still hiring?”

“Like hell!”

“Alrighty Jasper,” Grillby said, “I think I’m just about finished with you - and thank you again for being so amicable. Sure is nice to get some straight answers from folks every once in a while. Now, you know how many folks is in your outfit down there? And is them brothers in? I’m sure you could tell but I was fixin’ to make a house call.”

“Shoot I don’t know where them brothers are,” Jasper said, though he was sounding mighty relieved to have his little interrogation nearly over with, “They were talkin about riding out for somethin’ but they hadn’t left when me ‘n Glen struck out to keep a watch on the place - but there was sixteen of us down there ‘till you found me and Glenn.”

“Sorry about that business, by the by,” Grillby hummed, not feeling sorry at all, “No hard feelings. I’m just after something ya’ll took from me. You can understand that, can’t you?”

“Y-yeah sure. That’s reasonable,” Jasper was starting to sound mighty desperate, his freedom in sight, “Now you just let me go, alright sir? I ain’t gonna trouble you none - shoot you just pick a direction and I’ll ride right outta here just as fast as that horse can take me, you know I will.”

“I believe you, son, really I do,” Grillby agreed, slipping that knife from his hip one more time and laying the blade along the length of rope around his arm, “You ain’t gonna trouble us none.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God i've been wanting to write Grillby scary for so long. So, so long. Ya'll didn't think for a second Gaster was the only committed outlaw of the two, did you?


	22. Somewhere in the River There's a Gun the Devil Owned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we piss off the Higginses

“You’re scary when you wanna be,” Gaster whispered, “Sorta forgot about that.”

They were waiting for sundown, camped out near the bridge and getting ready for what Grillby had planned for them. Grillby was checking his rifle for what had to be the twelfth time - when your life is riding on how well a thing works, suddenly it becomes almighty important to ensure it is in fact working. But he wasn’t nervous, no, far from it. There was a terror in him like the roll of thunder before a storm and he was lightning ready to strike, and he relished in the feeling of it.

“I’m good at being scary,” Grillby said, talking with smoke no matter how hard he tried to swallow it.

“Kinda glad you didn’t give me what I was askin’ for in your bar the other night,” Gaster chuckled.

“I wouldn’t have roughed you up too bad,” Grillby flickered a pale-lit smirk, “I was never bad at outlawing.”

“Course you weren’t. It’s just been awhile is all,” Gaster said, slipping a knife into his boot just in case he’d need a second one, “And besides, with your whole nice-guy routine at the ranch, I sorta figured you’d shucked it all.”

“The nice-guy routine is _hard,_ ” Grillby said with more tenseness than he’d been intending, but it was true, “Letting that man loose over the edge of the canyon was easy. Makin’ threats is easy. Hell -” he jerked his head in the direction of the cabin behind them, “-all this we’re about to do? ‘S like scratching an itch all the way down deep in my soul. You know how hard it’s been to ignore over the last few years? Every time some fool hand gives me sass on the ranch, or some idiot gets drunk and starts picking fights. It’d be _so damn easy_ to just-”

Grillby exhaled a long breath of smoke, but his intent was in violent sparks like wasps from his flame, and Gaster knew what he was leaving unsaid.

“This better get over with soon,” Grillby said, “Or I’m gonna have too much fun and decide I don’t wanna stop.”

“You’re a stronger man than I am,” Gaster hummed, rolling a cigarette and holding it out to Grillby to light for him, which he did.

“You’ve been good the past couple months.”

“It’s been _frustrating_.”

“The other hands seem to like you.”

“They don’t know me.”

“They don’t know me either. Or… well, they didn’t.”

That shut the both of them up for a minute, and Grillby remembered… the town knew who he was. All those years… everything he’d built… the life he’d decided he liked… 

Up in smoke.

“I’m sorry,” Gaster said quietly.

“Ain’t your fault.”

Gaster finished up his cigarette and tossed it, and he looked over at the far-off horizon, thinking on something. Always, always thinking on something.

“If I stopped the outlawing,” he said slowly, “Just cut all that business loose and just do the traveling. Do you think…” Grillby looked at him, and Gaster met his gaze, steady but nervous, “You think you’d come with me?”

“I told you not to ask me that.”

“That was before-” but Gaster stopped himself, biting down the train of thought, “Nevermind. You’re right, I shouldn’t have asked. Let’s just… we’ll get those kids back and figure out what we’re gonna do about you. I’m sure if we worked hard enough we could find you a new place.”

Gaster stood, looking disappointed but reigning it in, “Alright, I figure it’s dark enough. Give me a couple hours.”

He checked his gun belt to make sure everything was in place, but before he could walk off Grillby said, “Gaster. Stay safe.”

The skeleton smirked at him, “I ain’t the one goin’ after the Fluke. Figure I’m the safest one out of both of us.”

“I’d rather you didn’t get killed over this, if it’s all the same to you.”

“I’ll try my best.”

Gaster slipped off into the darkness, a shadow that limped but persisted, and Grillby was left alone to try not to worry about him. He didn’t like this, sending Gaster down there alone, but they’d decided the Higgins Gang figured he was dead. So if they thought Grillby might come for them - well, they’d likely figure he was coming alone. So why not let them just keep on thinking that? But Gaster would need time to get dug in before Grillby kicked the hornet’s nest, so that’s what he gave him now.

This weren’t the first time they’d run an operation like this, and the sense of nostalgia was overwhelming. The last time they’d done this kind of fiasco was while robbing a bank state-side, Grillby couldn’t remember the name. They’d hit several. But Gaster had rode out to go stand with the folks making a deposit, sorta planting himself close to where they kept the safe. Gaster had always been a good actor. Sometimes Grillby thought it were like magic to him, chameleoning himself in a crowd, taking on and shedding personalities like he were changing his coat. And while he was acting like an innocent man, and town fool, a businessman minding his own, then Grillby would swoop in and kick up the dust. It worked, and no one ever really knew who they were. It’s hard to pin down a face when it’s billowing smoke, or when you figure you already know what it looks like. 

It was a little different this time. The Higgins boys knew what Grillby looked like, and there was no way Gaster would make himself look normal among them. But plans can change.

Grillby checked his time piece and with grim determination he mounted his horse. He patted Ash’s neck and smiled, “I always did like fireworks.”

Gaster crawled slowly through the tall grass, working his way towards the cabin at the base of the hill. He slipped from shadow to shadow, moving when the breeze moved the grass or the tree limbs, trying to look just as much a natural shadow as he could. There were times he was crouched, nearly doubled over as he darted to a new hiding place. Other times he cast off speed completely and was belly-crawling, all elbows and knees. 

It hurt. It hurt like hell. Every jostle reawakened the ache in his ribs, and sometimes he just lay there for a few breaths, waiting on the crescendo of aches and pains to die down some before gathering up his gumption and moving again. He shouldn’t be doing this, he knew he shouldn’t. He was too busted up, and his body screamed at him to quit playin’ hero, ‘cause he weren’t cut out for it.

But he’d die before he let Grillby take on the Higgins Gang on his lonesome, that was for damn sure. Gaster wasn’t a fool, and neither was Grillby for that matter. They knew two men alone against a gang of killers had small chances of success. One man on his lonesome was surely a dead man walking, and with Gaster so banged up they were more one and a half than two people rightly. But he weren’t doing much, he repeated to himself over and over, just get the kids.

So Gaster found himself a spindly tree to settle against for a moment to catch his breath, and he clutched a hand to his chest like the extra pressure could keep all the cracks together, and he wished he had a cigarette to calm his nerves.

“Just… robbing a bank,” Gaster breathed to himself as he peered around the tree to the cabin now close below him, just another forty yards, “You’re just robbing a bank, ‘cept all the tellers and customers are hardened killers, and you’re picking up kids instead of cash.”

Gaster cursed under his breath, “Yeah, this is nothin like robbin a bank.”

Gaster leaned up against the tree again, eyes screwing shut as he steadied himself. The collective bruise that was his ribs started settlin down again, throbbing a bit with the pulse of his soul as it wriggled around nervously in his chest somewhere. His internal clock was telling him he needed to hurry, that Grillby would be lighting up the horizon soon and he needed to be in place when it happened. He was almost there.

Gaster sunk into a crouch again, held his breath listenin for a spell, and judging he was as safe as he could be standing this close to enough bad intent to light a powder keg just by looking at it funny, he slipped to the house. Gaster counted his lucky stars no one was keeping too intense a watch on the place, cause if they were, they’d surely have seen him spidering his way up to the shadow of the house. But most of the men were outside, either pitching tents or fixing to retire into them, or else they were killing time smoking and playing cards. Their last count on the Higgins Gang had been fourteen, and a passing glance put somewhere near ten of them outside.

Gaster sat himself down against a rain barrel in the shadow of the house and waited, trusting to the darkness and his own ability to keep still to keep him camouflaged. It helped as well that most of the men was facing light, not shadow. Lanterns were lit in the cabin, but it only had a few small windows so the light didn’t reach far outside, leaving swaths of deep shadow close up against it. There were a couple campfires lit at the front of the cabin for the boys sleeping outside, and their eyes were adjusted to the light from them, making the night darker when they peered out into it.

So just as long as Gaster weren’t stupid and makin’ a ruckus, he figured he could sit here for awhile without being noticed. Though bein so close to bad intent made him a world of nervous. He kept a hand on the knife sheathed on his belt.

“How long til the riders down south get here?”

Gaster blinked and glanced over at the nearby window, which he now noticed was cracked open. That sounded like Tom’s voice, if he were placing it correctly.

“They should get here within the week,” the second voice Gaster didn’t know, but he figured it was one of the outfit, “Figure we can ride out in the morning and meet them, and then make tracks for Chase.”

“How many did they manage to get hired in?”

“Enough. If everything goes off without a hitch, anyway.”

“It will. Any news on Deadwood?”

“They sent out a posse the same night as the hit. Figure the hills out here will be covered in army boys in a couple of days.”

“Good,” Tom sounded far too satisfied for a man who’d just found out he’d be surrounded by the army soon, “So it’s all coming together then.”

A new voice spoke up, and it rasped low and deep with all the effort of someone who only spoke on the rare occasion they had something worth while to say, “Told you it’d all line up.”

When he spoke, Gaster felt like the whole damn world shifted its attention on him, and he became aware of a feeling like lightning charging up in the ground. _Magic_ , he realized. The man speaking was Cain.

“We still got a long way to go,” Tom responded, “Hell-Raiser’s still out there.”

Cain laughed, a low snarl of a sound that made Gaster think of mountain lions and the like, “Let him come. I’ll enjoy putin all them notches from his Winchester on my knife belt.”

Gaster bristled up at that, a fierce protective spirit raising its hackles inside him. His grip tightened on his knife hilt.

Gaster’s anger had about convinced him to do something really stupid when a flickering on the horizon reminded him of his place. He looked up to the hills that rolled out in front of the cabin and watched as billowing smoke suddenly flooded up from over them, a long, cinder-filled cloud that wanted to eat up the sky like it were jealous of the stars. And then a horse appeared at the top of the ridge there, a bright beacon of light sitting on its back. The horse reared up, rider lifting a rifle into the sky and firing a shot into the air.

“Higgins!” Grillby shouted, all cinder and smoke, the air around him lighting up in a flurry of curling sparks and tongues of flame, “The reaper’s come for your lot and I ain’t leavin’ till I’ve dragged all your souls screaming down to hell!”

He let out a whoop and spurred Ash into a hard gallop, and all them sparks and cinders shot off with him, lighting the ground in shooting lines that arced towards the outlaw camp. The nearest handful of pitched tents lit up like dry tinder and they billowed twice as much smoke as they should have, joining the haze of pitch and cinders that Grillby cast in wide strokes of magic across the hillside.

The effect on the men was instant. Guns were reached for, seats were left, those asleep came awake brawling. Grillby had his rifle up on his shoulder though and he pumped the lever on it as fast as he could, firing shots into the scramble and sending folks ducking for cover. That was when the door to that little shack kicked itself open, and out strode Tom and Cain Higgins. Cain already had a hand outstretched, and that arc of lightning magic went roaring in Grillby’s direction. Grillby met it mid-air with fire of his own, and there was an explosion of light and sound. Then, wheeling Ash around, Grillby spurred back up the hill into the smokescreen and burning grass he’d left behind.

“Get after him!” Tom bellowed, running for where the horses were picketed, “Let’s go!”

It didn’t take them long to cut out of there, men mounting up on nervous horses and charging in the direction Grillby had disappeared off to. Gaster slipped from his hiding spot and crept towards the front door of the cabin, since he’d seen Tom and Cain come out but he knew there’d been at least one other man with them in there, and he hadn’t seen him emerge. And he’d been right to be cautious. There was a man standing over the stairs down into the cellar, which was in the far back corner of what was the main room of the small two-room cabin. He was holding a shotgun and peering down the bannister like he were watching something.

Moving quietly, all his weight up on the balls of his feet, Gaster crept up behind him, knife in hand. He pounced, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck and dragging him backwards in the same quiet movement by which he buried his knife up in his throat. Gaster managed to soften the man’s slump to the floor, but the shotgun he dropped hit the floorboards loudly and clattered. 

Downstairs, he heard a boot scuff the dirt. 

Gaster paused at the top of the stairs, breath held, because sometimes the best thing a body can do is wait. That scuff came again, footsteps approaching from below, someone checking out the noise. Gaster held his knife by the tip of the blade, and when the man’s face came into view he threw it.

Now, his hunting knife weren’t made for throwing, and unlike Grillby, throwing knives around wasn’t a thing Gaster had ever tried being good at. But he could hit what he was aiming for, and all he really needed was a distraction anyhow. Something to catch the feller off-guard. So when the hilt of the knife smashed into the man’s face instead of the blade, well, Gaster didn’t care all that much. Using the extra seconds it gave him, he drew his sidearm and fired. The gunshot was loud and sudden in the quiet of the cabin, and before the man’s body had finished falling over Gaster was leaping down the stairs two at a time, scooping up his knife as he went.

It was black as ink downstairs, the glow from the lanterns on the ground floor the only light parsing through the darkness. It took Gaster a moment to adjust to the change and find the pair of kids watching him wide-eyed from beside a shelf covered in canning goods. He stole over to them, grabbing for Chara’s bindings first and sawing through them.

“M-m-mister Gaster!” Asriel whined, nearly crying from relief and fear, “Th-thank the stars - what’s going on?”

“Oh that’s just Grillby, pissing off the Higginses, don’t mind him,” Gaster hissed, not bothering to check his language, “Now you two stay hushed up. I don’t know how many of them stuck around.”

Gaster remembered something, and after he’d cut Chara free he paused to look the kid over. They had their gaze trained on the ground, intent bitter and boiling. But it wasn’t that Gaster was paying attention to. Gently, or at least as gently as Gaster knew how to be given he weren’t really a gentle sort of monster, he reached a hand out and lifted Chara’s chin, getting a better look at their bloody lip and black eye. Chara didn’t meet his gaze, but so close together in the same space, he reckoned the kid could feel the anger in his magic when he spoke.

“You remember which one of them did this to you?”

Chara pulled out of his grip and shook their head, eyes back on the floor.

“You see them tonight, you point them out to me,” Gaster said, trying not to sound nearly so dangerous as he felt, “We’ll make sure they learn some manners.”

Not waiting on any sort of answer, Gaster moved on to Asriel, cutting him free before slipping his knife back into his belt, “Alright, you two stick close to me. We’re getting-”

There was a creak in the wood above their heads, and Gaster hushed up right quick. There was another creak and Gaster recognized the sound of someone makin an effort to keep their steps quiet. He cursed at himself under his breath. He’d been in too much of a hurry to check to second room of this shack of twigs to make sure it were empty, hadn’t he? He knew better than that, goddamnit. Weren’t no helping it now though.

Gaster remembered the back entrance to the cellar he and Grillby had seen when they’d been casing the place from their vantage point, and he snuck over to it now, motioning for the kids to stay put. He put a hand against the cellar doors and, gently as possible, pushed. At first he thought the wood was heavier than he’d figured it for, on account of it not movin when he’d shoved into it. But puttin’ more pressure up, the doors bowed outwards a smidge and then resisted. Someone had locked them in.

“Damn it all,” Gaster snarled. He motioned for the kids to sit where he’d found them, and he scurried underneath the stairs leading to the cellar, hiding himself in the deep shadows there as those slow, creaking steps drew themselves overhead. A long shadow drifted itself across the doorway, spillin down the steps in sharp, twisting lines. 

They knew he was down here. Not that that weren’t already obvious with how quiet the man was being. But they were lettin their eyes get used to the darkness before they went downstairs. And while they took their time, Gaster was parsing through the trouble he was in. He could draw his gun and fire right quick, but he’d have to cock the hammer back, and that was noise he’d like to avoid. Same with the gunshot, if he could help it. It was for sure his first shot that’d told whoever was left in the damn camp he’d come in. So if the man had any more friends left upstairs, he’d rather they thought this guy had the situation handled. So he drew his knife. It’d be messy business for the kids to see, and sure enough both the kids were watching him wide-eyed from where they was sat, but he figured they knew he’d killed once already, so what was one more?

Not like there was no way around it anyway.

The man upstairs made his first step down, and then another, long slow steps that he didn’t bother maskin’ since them stairs wasn’t the best made and they surely weren’t made for silence. He got to the bottom of the staircase, feet hittin’ dirt. There was a pistol in his hand, Gaster saw the glint of the barrel in the low light. The man gazed into the dark, his eyes landing on the kids, and Gaster took that chance to spring out from his hiding place, knife-point leading. The man was quick though, and something must have warned him Gaster was springing - some noise or glint of light, or maybe just the fact that there was only so many places in this bare-bones cellar that a body could hide. He ducked and threw an elbow back that Gaster caught hard in the ribs, and thought he’d been shot for how much pain screamed up inside him. Wrestled the air right out of him, and his knife fell out of his hand, and he was mighty lucky he was doubling over when that pistol swung in his direction, making the shot go off high up over his shoulders. The kids screamed at the noise.

Teeth grit, his magic all nauseous from how much his everything hurt, Gaster bruised his knuckles on the man’s face. But he was small and he weren’t for close, rough fighting - he had no weight to throw behind him. All he was was willowy and fast, and even that was gone from him when he was so banged up it hurt to move. The man punched him back and he ducked the first swing, but the second one left his skull ringing like a copper drum, and the third slammed into his sternum and he was off his feet.

“You know, Tom told us you was dust,” the man laughed at him, smashing a heavy kick into Gaster’s ribs and wrenching a cry of pain from him so deep Gaster tasted leaking magic on the back of his teeth, “Reckon he was wrong? But not for too long I don’t think.”

It took just about everything Gaster had in him to pull his legs back and kick just as hard as he could into the man’s knee, and he felt more than he heard the pop of something not liking the angle he’d hit it at, and the man folded over like a house of cards, shouting curses. 

If Gaster were well he’d get to his feet, reach for his knife, his magic, his gun - but he weren’t well. He couldn’t breathe, which wasn’t a problem he’d had to face too many times in his life. And he was in a world of hurt, and he could _tell_ he was in a world of hurt. He was leaking magic, there were bright dots of the color flecked on the ground. It left a taste like iodine and grenadine in his mouth and wet his shirt. He figured he was just about ready to curl up and die and absolve Tom Higgins of the terrible sin of being a liar. ‘Cept Grillby was out there waiting on him to get the kids out, and while he was mostly indifferent to gettin’ his own dust scattered, he’d fight God himself if Grillby got killed on his account. So he might as well try his best not to make their gambit a fool’s one. He reached for his gun.

Gaster hadn’t accounted for that man being stood up already though, and no sooner had it cleared the leather of his belt was it kicked sliding from his hand. Then that man was on top of him, his own hunting knife arcing down towards Gaster’s face and he only just barely caught it before it could find a home in his eye socket. The full weight of that man’s body pressed down on his arms, and he shook locking that blade up over his face. Both of them snarling and panting, committing to the ugly fighting of just trying to stay alive. Gaster couldn’t reach for his magic, all his strength and effort was pouring into not feeling that blade scape bone, and though his legs kicked for something it was mostly useless. He was trapped on that dirt floor, and he could hardly think for how big and sharp that blade looked so dangerously close. His arms gave out of a sudden, and in his panic he hardly believed he’d squirmed to the side enough for the blade to miss him and cut dirt instead of his face. There was a moment where he scrambled and clawed and kicked, digging his bony fingers at the man’s face, his neck, his eyes, _anything_. But he was batted aside, he heard that blade get ripped free, and he grabbed the man’s wrists before it could descend towards him again.

Someone was moving off in his peripheral, and he managed to tear his gaze from that blade long enough to see Chara was picking up that pistol the man had dropped, and they aimed it at his back - and wide-eyed they froze like that. And Gaster was getting mighty desperate, and mighty angry in it, because he was about to get himself killed with these two kids just standing around watching him. And as his shaking arms threatened to give in to the man’s weight and sink that knife in him again he screamed, “ _God damnit shoot him already!”_

Asriel yanked the gun outta Chara’s hands and, looking absolutely terrified the whole time, he pulled the hammer back, closed his eyes, and fired. 

The man let out a yell and flinched as his hat was kicked off his head by the bullet, and while he was off-balance Gaster threw all he had into twisting the both of them over. Somewhere in the movement, the man’s arm crumpled, and Gaster slipped the blade through his Adam’s Apple. There was about a second where the man just looked shocked, staring up at the ceiling like he had no idea how he wound up on the ground with Gaster pinning him down instead of the other way around. He spoke some broken gibberish word around the knife blade, blood seeping around the hole and from the back of his mouth. Gaster figured he must’ve hit something vital - thank _God_ , because if that man had come up swinging again he was fairly sure it would’ve killed him.

The absolute blind panic of the scuffle was starting to wilt off him now, and Gaster was breathing ragged, barely able to keep himself up on his hands and knees. And he crawled off the man and laid in the dirt beside him, just gasping for air and coughing bled magic, a damn pathetic mess. Somewhat weakly he called, “Next time… shoot with your eyes open.”

Him speakin must’ve broke whatever spell of fear the kids was under, because they rushed over to him - both stepping wide and away from the dead human on the ground.

“Ga-Gaster are you--?”

“Fine,” he rasped from the ground, looking up at Asriel’s panicked expression and Chara’s much more muted attempt at one with only mild amounts of recognition, “I’m... fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Chara said quietly, voice shaking.

Well, Gaster figured that wasn’t a lie. He didn’t _feel_ fine if he were honest. But he was alive, which for now was close enough.

“Next time I see Grillby,” Gaster spoke aloud, committing it to the air, “I’m going to kiss him straight in his big --- _Stupid_ mouth.” He paused to undertake the growing labor of breathing and sorta wheezed all pitiful-like, “I have done nothing --- But want to do that --- Since I showed up in this --- _God-forsaken_ country --- And I’m so _pissed_ \--- I haven’t done it sooner.”

Now both the kids sorta just blinked at him for a minute, and then Chara said, sounding outraged, like Gaster had somehow disrespected every man who’d ever ding-dong-ditched Death, “ _That’s_ what you’re thinking about? _Right now?_ ”

“Adults,” Asriel muttered.

Groaning from the effort - and with some help from the kids - Gaster pulled himself to his feet. He instructed the kids to walk behind him, Asriel clutching tightly to the pistol he’d picked up like he could actually do any harm with the thing if he needed to. Climbing the stairs was a chore and a half, and there was a solid moment where Gaster wondered if he’d even be able to survive the sprint that was surely ahead of them. Once upstairs - and after Gaster was thoroughly sure the way was clear, he whistled for his horse. 

In the distance, there was a nearly endless pepper of gunshots. Good news and bad news, Gaster figured. That meant either Grillby wasn’t dead yet, or they didn’t know he was dead yet. Bright flaring lights of magic lit up that great black smoke cloud on occasion as well, nearly its own thunderstorm for how it looked, and Gaster figured that must be a good sign as well. 

That buckskin came trotting over faithfully to his call, looking a bit nervous for all the noise nearby. Gaster helped Chara on first and aching all over he managed to climb on after, trying to bite back any cry of pain that raised itself up inside him as he jostled his way into the saddle.

“You’re gonna have to keep a grip on the reigns, kid,” he wheezed to Chara, wiping away some bled magic he’d forgotten that had dripped from his teeth, “I ain’t good for much right now.”

Loosing some rope he tied himself to the saddle, hoping it’d be enough at least to get him back to town, “Asriel, you ride behind me in the saddle and keep that sidearm ready. I’ve got --” he coughed and grimaced, “-- there’s… spare ammo in the saddlebags if you need it. Hurry up.”

Asriel clambered into the saddle behind him, wrapping his arms around Gaster’s waist with nothing else to hold onto, and it took a mighty lot from Gaster not to curse at how much just that bit of pressure hurt. They rode up the hill he’d scrambled down to get the kids, and when they made it to the top, Gaster raised his arm up and summoned up all the rest of his magic with the motion. One of them great big snake jaws opened up beside him and fired a long blast of burning magic into the air, far brighter than any of the flashes they’d seen in the haze of smoke below. A few seconds passed, and a shot of bright orange flame scattered like a firework in response. Gaster dug his heels into that buckskin’s sides, and they were galloping off.

Gaster was almighty glad he’d tied himself into the saddle, because just as soon as that horse started pounding its way across the earth h e b l a c k e d o u t . . . .

. . . . .. . A n d h e c a me t o w i th Asriel hollering his name and shaking his shoulder. He didn’t figure he’d been out for l o n g , b e c a u s e h e r e c o g n i z e d th e l a n dscape. They hadn’t crossed the bridge yet. But his vision was getting awful fickle with how much it wanted to work and his h e a d w a s f u zze d up l i k e w e t c ott t t o n t hr e a te nin g to put him out again. 

“Mister Gaster! Where are we supposed to go?”

The kid’s voice seemed a bit more panicked then normal, so he figured he should answer, “The bridge.”

“What bridge?!”

Gaster shook himself and tried to catch his breath, because each time that saddle rocked he felt an almighty pain go lancing through him and it stole away all hope he had of speaking. He pointed so Chara could see, “There’s ah -- there’s a bridge. And a cliff. There’s horses waiting on the other side for -- you two as well.”

And a good thing too, because his horse was already getting tired with so many people on board. But it wouldn’t be a problem for long. No they just had to get to that bridge. And then Grillby would break it behind them and then -- shit everything hurt. It was so hard to breathe. And eve r y t h i n g w a s t h r e a t e n i n g t o -- -- - - 

\- - - - -- --- ------ C h r i s t s a k e s w hho was yelling in his ear now didn’t they know he just wanted to rest? Everything tasted like dead magic so strong it was all he could smell and he was sure there was grit in it like dust by this point. Asriel was calling out that he could see the bridge, and Gaster braced himself because he knew if that horse took that decrepit thing at a full sprint they were gonna be bounced around all to hell. He thought for the second time that night that he wasn’t cut out for this heroic shit, and he must’ve said some of it out loud because Chara asked him if he was alright.

Thank merciful heaven and hell those kids had the sense to slow their headlong gallop to a walk at that bridge because Gaster figured he’d pass out again if they didn’t - or maybe he would regardless. There was a streak of color and light that went flaring past them and Gaster figured for a few solid moments that he was seeing things. But then another one went arcing past and he realized it was not him seeing things, but magic flashing bright and wild past them. And their horse was already on the bridge, walking at a brisk pace across as the damn thing jittered and swung, and if Gaster weren’t already concerned with the outlaws catching up to them and how broke up his ribs were he might be worried their weight would do the rickety thing in. But they made it across, and Asriel slipped out of the saddle in an instant to run to the two horses they’d left tied and waiting for them.

“Mister Grillby!” Chara was shouting, “Come on!”

Now _that_ had Gaster’s full attention, for all that was worth. He looked up and he saw on the other side of that cliffside, riding just as fast as he could, bent over double and laying across Ash’s neck, Grillby was tearing towards them like a bat outta hell. Both the Higgins brothers was hot after him, hollering and firing off shots as they tried to gun him down, and once or twice there came that long arcing magic from Cain - though he was looking drawn and pale like he’d been slinging too many spells around, and all them powerful sparks were starting to fizzle out short. Grillby looked behind him, aiming some fireworks at the brothers’ horses and slowing them up a bit, enough for another five of their riders to come cutting into view behind them.

Ash suddenly dug in her hooves and skid to a halt just in front of the bridge, nearly sending Grillby tail-over-teakettle off her back, only for her to rear back and unseat him completely. Chara let out a cry of dismay, even as Grillby scrambled up to his feet. He tried for a moment to calm down his skittish horse, when a rifle shot sent him dropping into a crouch so as not to get hit. Flickering a hard frown Grillby smacked his horse’s hindquarters, sending her bucking and running across that rickety bridge, startled by the sudden sting. Grillby took one look at the swaying bridge and sprinted across, lighting a fire on the ropes behind him as he ran. There was a moment where Gaster thought Grillby had saved it, where his half blacked-out mind was willing to believe Grillby would beat them Higginses running. 

Then a sharp rifle crack shattered the air, and Grillby tumbled, his bleeding magic speckling across the bridge like scattering cinders. The whole flimsy thing swayed, and Grillby only just managed to grab onto the planks before the thing tipped, and he was hanging on to the bridge as its ropes twisted and it skewed sideways. There was fire lighting up on his clothes where the hole in his back was bleeding, and more fire spreading across the bridge on Gaster’s side of it. Grillby lost his grip with one hand when the ropes started snapping in the heat. Two, maybe three seconds he dangled there. The Higgins boys reigned in on the opposite side, Tom with his rifle up to his shoulder aiming for another shot through the fire. And Gaster was fighting to bring up his own magic to stop him from firing, and Chara and Asriel were sprinting over to the bridge as if Grillby weren’t so far out in the middle that they could never reach him.

Then the whole thing gave way.

The Higgins then turned their fire to the group across the bridge, and as the kids scattered for horses, Gaster’s buckskin spooked when that magic of Cain’s struck too close by. And Gaster, tied in as he was, his vision darting black again and his whole soul empty, couldn’t even fight as he was carried off. He figured perhaps he’d never been so helpless in his whole goddamn life, and then he didn’t figure much of anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about to spend the next 2 hours trying to format this chapter so that fanfiction.net stops erasing all my hard work >:/


	23. Wake of Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gaster is meaner than he probably should be

“----- - a t --- - a re - -- -w e go n n a do ? ”

“D on ‘t k now Asy I-”

S t up id k ids.

W e r en’t th e ir fa ul t t ho ug h. Di d n ‘t as k f ff or th i s. 

‘C ou rse i t wo uld n’t ha ve hap pen e d i f t h ey co uld f end f o r t he mse lve ss s. 

D amn Dr e emu rr f _ f _ f a m ily c an’tt t ta ke ca re of the ir own. N ev er shou ld’ v e g ot ten inv ol v vved. 

“ - e di dn’t w ake up l a st time I trie d -”

“I f he d i _ es o u _ tt t h e re b- bbe cause e e of u s-”

“D on’t cry yo u - -- t hat isn ‘t g o nn a h e lp an ything!”

“I c a _ an ‘t  _ he l p it! W e-’re g on nn a d ie o ut he re!”

“N o we ‘re no t!”

“Mma ma-- yb e  _ y ou wo n ‘t  _ y-y ou’re  _ h uman!  _ But I d-on ‘t get a choice!”

“W hat’s that got to do with anything?”

“You know  _ exactly-” _

“Oh that’s right! Because you’re too much of a  _ coward  _ to use your  _ dumb magic _ for  _ anything!  _ We could’ve escaped at any time if you could just use your fire!”

“I didn’t have the intent for it!”

“Oh but you could pull a trigger just fine!”

“That’s different!”

“Would you two  _ shut up?”  _ his voice was hardly a raspy wheeze, rattling up like a stone through his busted up ribs, but by God it got their attention. Or maybe it was less his voice and more the hackin’ cough that followed, speckling his hand with the grit of dust-thick magic like he had the Consumption. Gaster wiped it off on his shirt with a look of disgust, startin to feel mighty thankful he wore so much black. His whole chest was marrow-deep aches and snake-bite pains, and deep, far deeper where his soul set there was a great big hole like someone had cut out a piece of him, and it made everything else hurt all the more. And all of it worked together to give him a mood like the devil himself. Fit for murder or fit for grief, and all of it wrapped up in so much exhaustion he was liable to fall to dust in a stiff breeze.

Gaster was still on his horse, he got the reminder every time the critter took a step. And they were out on the plains, and it was dark, and the moon was on the wrong side of the sky. Night hadn’t fallen too long ago, which meant he’d been out for a long time, making up his mind on whether he was gonna fall to pieces or not. 

“How long have I been out?” Gaster asked with no shortage of venom in his pathetic wheeze of a voice.

“All day,” Asriel answered quietly, shrinkin down in his saddle like he could hide from Gaster’s snake-bitten stare.

“Where are we?”

“W-we don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“We just ran-”

“Wasted time, both of you,” Gaster snapped furiously, catching up Chara in that snarly glare, ‘cause it wouldn’t do to have the kid feelin left out, “You been out here in the Devil’s Country your whole damn lives and you don’t know how to find a direction? What the hell have I been teachin’ you how to track for if you can’t figure out how to cut out and look for the tracks we made comin’ in?  _ Damnation  _ if you two ain’t the most pathetic pair of cowpunchers this side of the Mississippi-”

He winced and nearly doubled over off his horse - he’d yelled too loud and hurt himself like the fool he was. Suppose that was probably whatever was left of Grillby’s soul kicking him in the ribs for making the kids upset. He clutched at his shirt and screwed up his face in a scowl and waited on the feeling to pass. When he figured he could speak again, he whispered, and it made him angry that he had to.

“Chara, find us a place to camp. No fire. Asriel, keep an eye on the horizon make sure we ain’t bein followed.”

“What are you gonna do?” Chara asked quietly, and Gaster couldn’t tell if the little shit was being defiant, or genuinely wondering.

“I’m going to try not to kill myself. That sound fine to you?”

Chara looked away from him, lookin something like miserable, and it crossed Gaster’s mind that maybe he was being a bit harsh. Then he decided he didn’t much care. His moral compass the past few months had been Grillby, and now Grillby was dust at the bottom of a canyon, and Gaster had never hated knowing something so much in his whole damn life. So who rightly cared if these kids were miserable or upset? Not him. Let their parents dote on them when they got home, dry their eyes and coo over them. He wouldn’t.

They were in high plains country, all flat land and course grass, so it took Chara some seeking before they found a suitable place in some brush to settle them down in. Gaster tried to slip out of the saddle with some semblance of dignity, but as soon as his leg touched the ground his knee gave out under him, and it was all he could do to cling to that saddle and not just fall. Of course both them kids rushed over to help him and he snapped that he was fine and didn't need them, because that's the most natural response you can give when you're as far from fine as a sinner from a church and you're too angry to abide by help. But those kids ignored thim, because unlike him, they were good people. And they took watches while he slept.

Come morning they ate a cold, miserable breakfast of hard biscuits and set out, Gaster feeling a mite healed but far from pleasant. At least he could sit in the saddle without fainting every five steps, and he didn’t bleed so much when he coughed. Guessing with the sun and a landmark of hills off in the far distance, Gaster pointed them in the direction of the AD - or at least the direction of the property - and they rode for it just as hard as they were able. Around noon Asriel spotted dust on their backtrail and if Gaster were in any fit state to, he might worry. Dust meant riders after all, and that they knew of, the only riders out here was the Higgins Gang.

The Higgins Gang, or the army. That had been something the boys in the cabin had mentioned. And the army finding them might be a good thing for them now, because it meant a safe and sure ticket home. But it bothered him that the Higginses  _ wanted  _ the army out here. It didn’t make sense - unless they was hoping the States would get caught up in yet another war with the folks who lived out in Wild Country, which was surely possible but not something a band of outlaws could rightly take advantage of. A band of outlaws who had a small army of their own comin as reinforcement. Which brought Gaster around to a thought he’d not had the chance to chew on yet - why take the kids? Why take the kids knowing the Dreemurrs were a family with friends at the fort who  _ would  _ scatter the States’ armed forces to try and get them back? Why not do something easier like ransom? Or sell them off somewhere? Why take a pair of kids with so much heat attached to them?

Unless of course that were the point. But that just led him back in the useless circle of why you’d ever want so much goddamn attention on you. Outlaws worked best when they weren’t prestigious - or at least prestigious enough that sayin’ your outfit would get you out of a fight, but not enough that the whole country was after you. So why then do something you knew was gonna put the law after you in all its strongest graces?

Made no damn sense, and he was half delirious anyway, so perhaps he was overthinkin’ and it really didn’t matter? They’d gotten them kids back anyway. Whatever plan they’d had going, it was done now.

Nightfall come and they found the river, and with it they found their way home. It was still two days’ ride to the Dreemurr ranch from this far out on the property’s border, but they were out of the worst of it it seemed like. And the kids, back in familiar country again, looked mighty relieved and they picked up their pace.

Come the time they finally came in view of the Dreemurr ranch in all its ruin and glory, the kids left Gaster in the dust running up to the place, both hoopin and hollerin for their parents. There were some armed hands at the fence, Gaster was pretty sure it was Manuel and Vera, and they looked awful excited to have them kids back. Vera broke for the house, not even making it to the scorched up porch before the door was flung open and both Asgore and Toriel were outside, comin to greet their kids. 

Gaster had never felt so much disgust at seein anyone so happy. They didn’t deserve that happiness. No one deserved it right now. 

He’d stopped his horse just as soon as those kids had cut loose, and now he sat alone. Manuel lifted a hand in greeting, though there was a hesitance in it, because he surely realized Gaster was by his lonesome, with no fire in sight. There was a feeling like vomit climbing up in his throat, and Gaster turned his horse away from the ranch and towards the town, and he rode out without a word. Them kids were back like Grillby had wanted. 

Like Grillby want _ ed _ . Because he couldn’t want for nothing much now at the bottom of a canyon. There was a sound like dry brush blowing in wind scratchin at the back of his head, muffling every thought, every emotion. Everything but  _ angry _ . It didn’t matter how much he hurt or how tired he was because angry had filled him all the way up like a pot boiling over on top of a hearth, so the whole house smelled like burnt stupidity and black smoke. He wanted to break something. He wanted to  _ hurt  _ something. And then he wanted to curl up on the floor somewhere and vomit until he died.

But he did none of them things - though the dying bit was likely still on the table if he were stupid enough. He walked his horse out to Grillby’s bar, because he didn’t know where else to go. He fell off his horse and laid in the dirt for awhile, ignoring all the odd stares and questions on if he was okay, seeings how a blind man could see he weren’t fine at all. Then he crawled to his feet and into the derelict building, wheezing his way pathetically up the stairs. He found the dark corner nearest Grillby’s bed and he slumped there, content to drown in his own misery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh apologies for the pause on this! I spent the last week writing a quick DnD campaign so I didn't have time to work on this too much. Campaign has been written though, and what we've played so far was fun, so that's good :)


	24. The Bitter Taste of Green Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get mad and prepare to do something impulsive

It was an evil, spiteful, hateful dream that Gaster had sitting on the floor in that big empty room. He had a dream about the soft smell of wood smoke, sharp with gunpowder, and there was a gentle warm seeping through his bones ‘cause he were laying close to the source. Grillby was beside him, they were sittin’ side by side and Gaster had slumped against him to sleep. Grillby was cleaning his Winchester, slowly reassembling the pieces he’d taken apart. If he were smart enough, Gaster would have remembered this was an old memory, one of the last good ones he had before they started spatting and fighting, and then he’d woke up one morning with Grillby just gone. But he hadn’t quite got there yet, dreams being what they are.

“Shoot, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Grillby nodded, continuing his work.

“You know I’m pretty relieved to see you. I had this… terrible… well it weren’t a dream I don’t think. I just sorta had this idea something bad had happened.”

Grillby nodded again.

It was about then that Gaster sorta realized something about this scene weren’t right, where he started to figure out memory-turned-dream weren’t lining up the way it was supposed to with the way things had actually happened. In the memory, he knew he’d not said a darn thing about any sort of bad premonitions - that weren’t the kind of magic Gaster knew how to make. And Grillby had responded to him by now. It was around then that his dream decided to show him the two of them were sitting in the middle of that damn bridge Grillby had fallen off of, just before it snapped and fell. And Gaster fell in his dream, cursing that he hadn’t realized he was dreaming sooner.

He woke up feeling like his soul had come crashing back into his body, all sorts of aches and pains crawling alive with him. He was still warm though, and the smell from his dream was strong in his skull. He’d had a blanket thrown over him, one of Grillby’s, and there was a hand on his chest covered in bright dazzling green magic so strong he could _feel_ all the cracks in his busted ribs weaving back together. It was a weird sensation, stuck somewhere between an itch and an ache.

Tillie, Vera’s wife, was sittin on the ground next to him, an open book in her lap full of the kinds of odd symbols and rune words Gaster had come to know over time as a form of human magic - what he recognized as Toriel’s healing needle sitting in the center of one of the symbols, amplifying the magic that came out. It weren’t like the wild, powerful, world-breaking stuff Devil-souled folks carried. It was calculated, woven together over hundreds of years of humankind working with the essence of the world. He’d been told it was impressive, and if he were anything but spiteful and rattlesnake-mean right now, he might be convinced to agree. 

Instead he growled sorta hoarsely, “Didn’t ask for your help.”

“If I helped every fool who asked for it,” Tillie responded, “There’d be a lot more graves in the churchyard. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Don’t figure I much care about your opinion.”

Tillie sorta sighed at him and took her hand away, magic fizzling up when she did. He was mostly healed up by now, though there was still a sort of soreness oozing out of him that could just as much be his foul mood as it was any wounds he had left. He was tired though.

“He’s awake, Toriel,” Tillie called, closing up her book.

Toriel came ‘round the corner from where Grillby’s little kitchen was, holding a coffee pot that looked toy-sized in her giant paw, and some cups balanced in the other. Then she settled herself on the ground beside Tillie and poured them all a cup of coffee.

“I wanted to thank you for saving my kids,” Toriel said quietly, “And offer my condolences.”

Gaster’s soul curdled at that, writhing in his chest like a bag full of snakes, and he reckoned there were enough bitter and anger in his magic to blacken the walls like soot.

“I’d rather have nothing more to do with you folks,” Gaster said, showing just about as much restraint as he was capable of having, “Save your pity for someone else.”

“What happened?”

There was a sharp sort of abruptness in her tone, like she was already losing her patience with him. Or maybe like she were scared of him, all black-souled and bitter, a wounded animal. It was hard to read her intent - he wasn’t used to the odd, jittery magic boss monsters seemed to have. But there was sorrow there, that he could read. 

“Your kids not tell you?”

“Chara refuses to speak,” Toriel sighed, “And Asriel gets emotional every time we ask him what happened. It didn’t seem right putting them through repeated misery just to get an explanation from them.”

“Spoiled brats, the both of them.”

Toriel let out a huff, obviously finding him difficult. She took a sip of her coffee, trying to keep composed - or at least from being outwardly angry at him.

“We’d like to retrieve Grillby’s dust if we can,” she said finally, catching Gaster off-guard, “He deserves to rest somewhere he loved, or with someone he loved. Not out there in the wilds with outlaws running over his grave. We’ll bring you with us to search if you’d like.”

Well, that humbled Gaster down a mite, throwing ice on all his boiling. He sorta looked down at his hands a moment, feeling suddenly like vomit. There was a big ol ball of emotion rising up in his chest, something far deeper than all the anger he was lettin loose, and there was a moment where he didn’t trust himself to speak, “He was uh… they shot him off the side of a canyon. It was a couple days’ ride into Wild Country. Reckon I could find it again but… it’d have to wait. ‘Til the outlaws were brought in, or the army or they moved on or-” 

Gaster shrugged helplessly, “He’s probably washed down the river by now anyway.”

Tillie swore quietly and whispered, “Vera’s gonna be heartbroken.”

Gaster was starting to feel mighty miserable and small looking at those two girls who looked so downcast. He was so self-centered, so used to being by his lonesome and for his lonesome, he'd forgotten Grillby had friends outside of him. Should've been harder to forget, given how many people Grillby rode with and tipped his hat to in the past few months they'd been in this dusted-up town. But Grillby always talked so little - laughed so little, it was easy to think he kept to himself. But he did spend time with people in his own quiet way, and he helped them and worked with them and on the rare occasion laughed with them. And Gaster got pissed off all over again, because _he_ was the friendless drifter, _he_ was the monster who'd rode out of town on death's door, and yet somehow it was _Grillby_ who hadn't come riding back. What fool god in the sky let that happen?

"There is one more matter of business," Toriel said climbing slowly to her feet, "They rounded up the herd to drive it to the fort this morning."

"Right… I don't get paid unless I help with that," Gaster said distantly, finding it hard to focus much on his contract with the Dreemurrs at the moment but making an effort to try.

"I have no intention of forcing you to catch up with them," Toriel hummed, "Both you and your horse could use the rest anyhow. But we cannot pay you until he returns, so I'd ask you to stay in town until then. You're welcome to your lodging on the ranch, if you'd like it."

"Am I even still welcome around here?" Gaster laughed dismally.

Toriel paused at that, like she was thinking on something, and then she said, "When Grillby first rode into this town years ago, he still had dust on his coat and violence in his magic. Wasn't hard to see he came with trouble on his back trail. But he asked for our help, and when we gave it, he repaid us in kind tenfold. There was never a day we regretted having his help. When he brought you into our home, with magic so thick you could cut it with a knife, we knew you were just the same as he was. But you asked for our help, and we gave it, and if it weren't for you my children very well might be gone.

"This town is small and it ain't good for much, but it believes in the power of kindness on a soul. It is probably optimistic of us, and some folks might call it foolish - that level of violence never leaves you, and you’ll be dangerous for the rest of your life. But actively choosing to do good when your soul is built for harm? That’s a powerful thing, and something all folk are capable of. Even you.

“So, Mister Gaster, to answer your question - you will be welcome here for so long as you make yourself welcome, outlaw or not,” Toriel sighed, “I only wish I had the chance to reassure Grillby of the same.”

Toriel left shortly, claiming she had errands to run - though Gaster got the feeling it was because he made her uncomfortable. He wasn’t pleasant to be around in his better moods, let alone now when his soul was sour as bad apples, and it had to be the oddest sort of awkward for her, consoling Gaster of his heartache knowing full well if Grillby hadn’t gone after her kids it never would have happened. Gaster figured someday he might stop resenting the Dreemurrs for it… _someday_.

Tillie gathered up her own effects to leave, but before she disappeared downstairs she said, “Do be careful if you go out to the Dreemurr’s place, Mister Gaster. Eide found tracks on the property last night. We don’t know if it was the army or not.”

“Did he mention what direction they were headed?”

“East I think.”

Gaster nodded to her and she left. 

And Gaster was alone again.

He decided right now that he hated the way things had turned out. Not just the Grillby getting killed and him not - that was its own bag of self-loathing he wasn’t ready to undo yet. But at least the first time when Grillby left him, he’d known Grillby was alive somewhere. He’d always known he could find him again if he tried hard enough. There had been a thought in the back of his head that no matter what, somewhere, Grillby was likely safe. And at the time that’d made him angrier, knowing he’d been betrayed by someone so important to him and that they was still out there living a good life without him. Now though… now he fervently wished Grillby had just cut out on him again. He could move on from being hated, or not good enough to abide by.

Gaster stewed in his misery, hardly moving, switching between angry and sad and distant like he was playing roulette in his head and waiting to strike a nerve. There was an idea starting to eat at the back of his soul though, an impulsive feeling making itself at home in all the raw stupid emotion he had. See, he was thinkin about them tracks, and about them boys talking by the cabin window, and about how if the Fort had scattered the army from here to hell in Wild Country, then there would be mighty few of them left in the Fort proper, which meant a bunch of riders coming up from the south to meet the Higgins going east would have a heyday there with the new railroad and all the supplies that would get them and big ol’ herd of cattle right in the middle of it all to add to the confusion. And he was also thinking about how much he hated those Higgins boys, and all their lot, and he was thinking about how Grillby always said he had a bad habit of getting angry and doing stupid things, and how he cared very little about some stupid little town’s views on harm for good reasons, but cared quite a lot about how dangerous he was, how dangerous he _felt_.

Gaster stood up, picking up all the little pieces he’d let himself break into since he’d sat down. He walked slow downstairs, and out the saloon to the general store. With a great sense of calm he picked up half a dozen boxes of shells, a sight for his Winchester, and enough provisions to make the three-day ride to Fort Chase with some comfort. Now the feller behind the register at the store sorta looked at him, suspicious and a bit concerned. Gaster didn’t pay him much mind. He only cared about it all being rung up. Making small talk as best he could, the clerk sorta muttered, “You uh… planning a trip there?”

Gaster paid for his purchase, and gathering up his supplies he said plainly, “Never was good at planning - but I did always have a knack for raisin’ hell, so I figure that’s just what I aim to do.”


	25. The Hanged Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we start making our way out of a canyon

If you’d asked Grillby what he figured would happen when that bridge snapped to pieces over the canyon, he’d have to admit waking up alive wasn’t something that’d make the list. Matter of fact, there was a solid block of time where he didn’t rightly realize he was alive at all. There was a mighty pain in his chest about where he figured his left lung would be if he were a human with that sort of flesh to worry over, and in the center of him there was a heavy something like a stone that made it uncomfortable to swallow and breathe. He figured this might be what being dead felt like, especially when he figured out he was moving, swaying a little. And there was an echoing sort of roar all around him like water and wind, and his ankle ached which was sorta weird. The hurt in his chest sorta made sense, seeings how that’s where his soul was, and somewhere around there that’s where he’d been shot. But his leg complainin’, that didn’t really add up.

At some point Grillby opened his eyes and he figured out no, he wasn’t, in fact, dead. He was very much alive, for the time being anyway. He was hanging upside-down, looking up (down?) at broken branches and tree limbs, and a great big tangle of planks and rope, some of it caught around his right leg. Looking down, there was about fifteen feet of a drop to some rocky ground where there was broken branches and burned up bridge parts all scattered and shattered, and a neat little odd-ways circle of scorched earth where he’d been slowly bleeding and swinging. Five foot to one side was sharp rocks, and five feet to his other side was the river that’d carved this canyon out. Looking up at him, sorta quietly curious and just out of that circle of scorched up ground Grillby had been bleeding all over, Ash knickered.

Grillby sort of pointed at her, and speaking rough around that heavy sink in his chest he said, “This is your fault.”

Ash flicked an ear at him, listening but overall disinterested. Goddamn horse.

Moving stiff like he’d been hanging there for years, Grillby swung himself, reaching for the tangle of rope around his leg. He succeeded in making himself dizzy as all hell, and waking up such a horrible pain in his chest that he nearly choked on it, and all he could do was swing and gasp for breath and flicker sparks and smoke. He swung there gasping like a fish for what felt like hours, until the swinging and the spinning calmed down a bit and the gunshot settled into a persistent throb of an ache, but a little more manageable than it had been before. It occurred to him it was gonna hurt an awful lot to fall from this tree and land on his wound. Course he didn’t really have much of a choice since the alternative was hanging there until he died, and he weren’t so keen on that idea just yet.

Thinking a little wiser this time, Grillby lifted a hand and sent some sparks flying up towards the rope, setting it alight. Took an awful lot of concentration to coax those little sparks into a flame proper, and when they caught he closed his eyes ‘cause he knew this was gonna be the least pleasant way to fall out of a tree. The rope snapped and he fell like a stone, landing hard on his shoulders, and the way it jarred him just about had him convinced he’d been shot a second time. If the fall hadn’t taken is breath away, he reckoned he probably would’ve hollered. Instead he just sputtered and smoked and wheezed on the ground while Ash ambled over to him to see what all the fuss was about. Eventually he caught his breath, still swallowing around that slug in his chest, and he grimaced because he knew the unpleasantness weren’t quite over yet.

See, for all his blubbering right now, Grillby had in fact been shot before - he’d be mighty lucky, given his history, to have not been. And while he surely burned pretty hot, he’d never once, that he knew of, burned hot enough to melt metal. Which meant just like humans, he suffered from the horrible affliction of needing to get a bullet out when it was stuck in his insides. _Unlike_ humans, however, his body had its own way of expelling the nuisance, and past experience told him as soon as he stood up the nastiness would start.

Grillby crawled to his feet, and immediately a nausea struck him fierce. He had about enough time to brace himself against the cavern wall before he was doubled over wretching. It hurt like hell, less because of the unpleasantness of expelling something and more because he was doing an awful lot to agitate his wound. After much fuss, and enough wretched up magic to light a bonfire, what was left of the slug found itself on the ground, and Grillby glared at the miserable thing as he waited on his everything to settle. He started rounding up his thoughts, trying to gauge how he’d get out of this mess he’d landed in. 

If Ash had wandered down here, that meant there should be a way back out right? A horse-safe one anyway. And that meant he could ride out of here. ‘Cept he had no idea where “here” was, outside of the bottom of a canyon. Looking above him at those scrubby trees that had caught him, and past them the gaping maw of the top of the canyon, yielded him little. Surely he was right below where the bridge had been, but there was no scaling the walls from here, and no real landmarks to speak of. All he knew was he’d need to head East from here to try and get back to the ranch lands, and it was going to be a long trip when he was hurt and alone. There was a moment where he thought of Gaster and the kids, but he brushed the thought away before he could linger on it. If they were in danger still, there was nothing he could do about it at present. He’d have a hard enough time getting free of this canyon without the extra worry.

At least he had his horse.

Stiff and achin’ still, Grillby pulled himself onto Ash’s back, muttering, “Still your fault I wound up down here.”

She flicked an ear at him.

“Well… at least you came and tracked me down I s’pose.”

Grillby pointed Ash down the canyon, picking the direction that looked the easiest for the horse to traverse and he let her walk, trusting her to take them back out the way she’d come. Meanwhile he took out his timepiece, wound the spring, and watched the time.

Grillby might not be the best tracker in the world, but he’d spent enough time running through wilderness to know how to keep sense of his direction. Seemed to him they were headed mostly south, though the river wound a bit. It was all the sound of rushing water and cool damp down here - whatever direction the sun was pointing, it wasn’t straight on, so it cast him in shadow. He knew time had passed since he’d fallen off the bridge - though he couldn’t quite remember when during his descent he’d blacked out - and he was reasonably sure it was sometime in the afternoon. If Gaster and the kids were well and riding hard, they’d be home in two, three days. Grillby hadn’t gotten a good look at them while he’d been riding like hell for safety, but the kids had _seemed_ alright. Gaster though - he’d looked rough. Grillby hadn’t gotten a good look at his wounds, but he’d seen he’d been tied into the saddle.

There was nothing to be done about it right now though. No, he needed to focus on getting home. A fall like that, Gaster and the kids probably figured him for dust, which meant Gaster was bound to get mean and dangerous right quick. He was going to run off and do something stupid, like get himself killed in a shootout with the Higginses, and that Grillby coudn’t abide by. ‘Course he wanted them Higginses dead. They was too dangerous to leave to their own devices now, and Grillby figured he owed them some harm for that night they’d wrecked his bar. But more importantly, there was a deep deep part of his soul that didn’t want Gaster dead over this mess. 

This time they’d spent together reminded him just how much he missed Gaster’s company. Sure he was meaner than a snake when he wanted to be, and he was a rowdy handful prone to trouble. But he was also loyal, and funny, and he had a beautiful voice. And perhaps it was just cause they’d run as outlaws together, but being with Gaster felt… genuine. He wasn’t hiding around him, wasn’t playing nice and saving face. Sure he knew they was destined to part ways after all this was over, but it would cut him awful deep if Gaster came to an end in gunfire and dust scatter. Cut him deeper knowing it was on account of him, and his stupidity and his inability to keep a-hold of his reins at the _one time_ he needed to most.

So he rode with purpose through the evening, ‘till that canyon was turning deep blue from shadow and nightfall, and only then did he take the time to figure if he should stop or not. He wanted to catch up, but he was sore and exhausted - passing out tail-over-teakettle in a tree weren’t exactly restful, and he’d been running a hard gambit the past week besides with little rest. Besides, on the off-chance the Higginses was still running around the canyon, it’d be best if he weren’t riding around a bright torch in barren land. The canyon he was walking through was full up of little caves and curves though - carved out every time the rains came through and raised up the river. He found one big enough for him and Ash both to fit in and he pulled his duster up to cover his flame. He was more tired than he took himself for, ‘cause even for the hard ground and the nervous sound of water so close by, he was asleep just as soon as he’d settled.

* * *

‘Cept he didn’t stay asleep. Not all night anyway. 

He woke sorta slowly, groggy and distant, like his soul was crawling back into his waking body, and his flame was slow to warm. He was still sore, which for a bit was the only thing he cared to focus on, except for when he noticed Ash had her ears pricked up and attentive, listening to something. He was surprised she could hear a damn thing with all the sound of the river. But her hearing something meant there could be something out there worth worrying about, so Grillby reached for his magic and his rifle.

Voices tumbled their way down the canyon towards him, and he realized there was some folks coming. He stepped behind Ash, hoping she would shield most of his light.

“--course the Higgins would knock out the only bridge ‘round here for miles.”

“Ain’t the one brother Deviled Up? He couldn’t just make a new one?”

Grillby scowled and he pulled his hat down lower on his head.

“Human or monster, all them magic users is the same. Keeping all that useful stuff to themselves.”

“And we’re still trusting them?”

“You cut out if you want, but I ain’t about to let a whole fort slip away from me.”

Bright lamplight suddenly struck out across the canyon, and the sound of horses, and then they were right in front of him, plodding slowly on their way, following the river. Grillby held his breath and watched them, hoping the brightness of their own lamps would keep him less noticeable. It sure cast the little cavern he was in with long shadows. It was ten riders all told, strung out in single file and rarely in pairs. They looked tired, dust-beaten and mean. He saw notches on rifle stocks and pistol handles - they were bad men. And Grillby realized he didn’t recognize any faces. Most of them were quiet, maybe drifting off in their saddles or otherwise wishing they was. One man was rolling a smoke. The two who’d been talking were near the middle of the group, jawing away in an effort to stay awake.

“I ain’t cuttin out on anything, but this here plan seems like a good way to get kil’t.”

“Sure, or it’s a good way to get control of the whole territory.”

“What’s stopping the army from shipping a bunch of boys down the railway to hang us?”

“The way I hear tell of it, there’s a boss monster up here somewheres that the Higgins is gonna get after. All that sorta magic brought together would scare off a whole army. Shoot, I heard it were some feller usin’ a boss monster soul that held the Alamo as long as it did-”

The group passed Grillby’s little hideout by, too preoccupied, it seemed, to notice him; but he didn’t dare move ‘til the sound of their horses died off under the sound of rushing water.

Well, that sure sounded like bad news. So the Higgins were planning on taking Fort Chase? Suppose that did make more sense than cattle thievin’. Though Grillby was still downright confused as to why. Guns would probably make good money sold, and having control of a brand new rail line was sure to net them some pay some way or another. But forts weren’t exactly the sort of places that kept cash on hand unless there was a stage coming in to give the soldiers their monthly pay. Suppose it didn’t much matter whether he understood the outlawin’ side of it or not though. He’d understood enough to know they was planning to kill Asgore at the very least, and probably just about anyone who got in their way besides. And suddenly the kidnapping made more sense. 

Asgore had friends at Chase, and those friends would mobilize when he called on them. All these hills out here get to crawling with the army and there’s no one left at Chase to put up a proper fight back, well that’d make the fort a hell of a lot easier to take. And Asgore would be driving his herd up there to sell soon. Suppose they’d be there and ready to ambush him when he does?

Well one thing was for certain - if these boys that’d just passed him ran with the Higgins, that would surely mean they was riding out to meet up with them somewhere. There _must_ be a way out of this canyon, and he was heading in the right direction. Grillby waited a bit longer before brushing down Ash and saddling up.

“Alright miss,” Grillby spoke out loud to his horse, seeings as he had no one else to talk to out here in the middle of nowhere, “What do you say we get out of this hole?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! We have officially caught up with my buffer [I'm sure it was obvious, given the posting delay] so unfortunately you'll all have to wait for the next one for whenever I get the time to write it. We're rapidly approaching the finale of the story. All the little pieces are coming together. Ya'll ready? I am! [starts throwing my lasso around the loose ends that need tying]


	26. Brontide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gaster is mad, and does something very impulsive

It was a pale, warm morning that broke on Gaster as he toiled towards the horizon; he and that buckskin of his a single long, twisting silhouette facing the sun. He’d picked up the Higgins’ trail easily, picked it up again when it was joined by a number of horses comin’ up from the south, just as the voice he’d overheard in the window had promised. And it surprised him none when at one point those tracks camouflaged themselves in the churned up earth of Asgore’s herd as he’d driven it Fort-ward. It was all coming together, Gaster figured. For what purpose he still wasn’t sure - though if he put some thought into it he’d probably have it figured out fine. But he weren’t really in the pondering sort of mood.

He hadn’t quite figured out yet what he was gonna do when he caught up to them, outside of finding the nearest Higgins brother and opening fire. There was that loud impulsive bit in his soul that took personal offense to Tom being the one who shot Grillby off the bridge, but the more rational side of him had to admit Cain was the bigger threat of the two. So Cain should be the first one lined up in his sights. If he had the presence of mind to think of it, Gaster would’ve admitted it was… odd… riding after someone with the plain intent of doing them harm. He’d done plenty of harm in his life - he was a violent monster - but he couldn’t remember many times in his life that he’d gone hunting someone. Violence was a thing that sort of happened as the means to an end, not the end itself. Even the once or twice he’d found himself on a posse, the intention had been to arrest the fool they’d been after, not kill them.

‘Course, Gaster didn’t have much presence of mind right now. He was all emotions and magic - a lightning strike, a bushfire, loud and hot and unmistakably dangerous, a gun about to clear its holster - and he was only mildly inconvenienced by the notion he would get arrested after he was done. Would they hang a man for getting revenge, or was that one of them pardonable sins? Gaster weren’t rightly sure it mattered. All that mattered to him was that them tracks he was following was looking mighty fresh, and while he’d never been to Fort Chase before, this sure was starting to look like the sort of country a fort would be built on.

Fort Chase sat near the bend in a river, which was both a blessing and a curse. The river carried supplies to them mighty quickly - and before the land had been deemed ‘settled’ enough to ride a wagon train through, that had saved them on many occasions. It gave them a leg up in trading with the people around them; and that was mostly what it’d been put there for in the first place. However, bein’ so close to the river put them on low-lying land. The prairie sloped up around it, so their view of the world them weren’t so wide and vast as they’d probably like it to be. They compensated this a bit by building tall walls, and a couple look-out towers, but there were still places where the land rose up high enough to obscure the view. Not so much hills - it was rolling prairie, flatland mostly and there were places on the land where you could see for miles. But there were also places where the ground sloped in short angles up and downward, a tall wave in an endless ocean of grass, and Fort Chase rested at the bottom of one of these.

It was for that reason that when Gaster crested the ridge he’d been trailing beside, the world suddenly broke out before him and he saw a lot all at once. The first thing he noticed was Asgore’s herd, a couple thousand head of stock grazing sorta unawares and mostly unwatched, save for a pair of horses and riders who were facing Fort-side - and that was what he noticed next, the Fort suddenly in view, all dirt track and high wooden walls, the front entrance wide open with monsters and humans alike wandering about getting ready for the first big cattle sale of the season. There was that railroad track, a great black American 4-4-0 named _Ebott Zephyr_ crouched on the tracks and belching smoke as it waited to take on its cargo and roll out to the south. Belatedly, Gaster noticed movement towards the herd, and watched as ten riders crested the ridge to the west there, and he recognized them right quick as the Higginses. 

Now, Gaster had never seen a stampede before. Sure he’d seen some of the cattle spooked during the roundup, but the hands he’d worked with had been quick thinkers and cow smart besides, so he’d never seen that sort of disaster as it sprung up on the range. So he wasn’t sure what brought him to the sudden realization that the Higgins Gang were going to force that herd to stampede, but he did, and he figured all them folks that was sitting between the herd and the railroad was about to be in a world of hurt if they didn’t light a shuck outta there.

So Gaster raised up his pistol in the air and fired a warning shot.

Those cowhands looked in his direction right quick, and then to the ridge behind them as one of the Higgins Gang let out a holler, figuring now was as good a time as any to get started. Then they were all firing off their six-shooters, spurring their horses towards the herd, more horsemen pouring over the ridge after them. The herd bellowed and bolted, thundering away from the sudden noise. Gaster spurred his horse towards the stampede, eyes set on that crowd of gunmen as they shot and shouted and filled the air with panic and brontide. Cutting near the head of the group, about halfway up the side of the stampede and keeping it on track for the fort, Gaster saw Cain Higgins, and he charged at that man with all the speed his horse could give him. His soul leaped in his chest, nervous excitement flooding through him, all that anger he’d sat with as he’d rode climbing up his throat as he saw in his head what he was going to do, and it wormed a bright manic grin across his teeth.

Clutching tight to the pommel of his saddle with one hand, Gaster stood in his stirrups. He slipped one foot up to the belt on his saddle that held his rifle in place, cinching the toe of his boot there. Then he pulled up his other leg and crouched, holding tight as that buckskin ran, eyes riveted on Cain Higgins who was gettin’ closer, closer. Their horses had just about collided when Gaster leaped. Cain had a breath to see him coming, and then Gaster was tackling him out of the saddle and they were rolling across dirt. It was a real and true miracle that they fell into a thin spot in that stampede and weren’t crushed to death amongst the churning hooves. Gaster sprung up to his feet, his whole body sore from the fall but laughing for how angry and excited he was as Cain threw a blast of magic up in the hopes it would scatter some of the cattle away from them. 

All the air was dust and clods of dirt and the blurs of terrified and moving shapes. Gaster was lucky he was so willowy and quick that he could duck out of the way of horns and ploughing bodies as he worked close in towards Cain again. The spitefulness in him took so much joy in seeing panic break across that man’s face as he threw up magical shields to batter away them crushing hooves. He bashed one of them rampaging steers out of his way, all that light and noise parting the herd of them just a bit. The two of them was standing close, and Gaster’s hand was reaching for his gun. And all the air was thick with Cain’s magic he was too scared to drop for fear that stream of cattle would turn the both of them into nothing more than a smear in the mud. 

Over all that noise and magic and thunder so deep in the ground the whole earth seemed to echo with it - Gaster heard someone call his name. Crisp, clear, warm - though it froze him solid. There was a bright light in that haze of dust, a smooth, lithe shape come leaping out amongst the horns and cowhide. Gaster realized there was a hand reachin’ for him, and he only just had enough thought to reach back.

Grillby gripped onto Gaster’s forearm, leaning halfway out of the saddle as he and Ash come galloping through the pitching bodies of the stampede. He half-dragged, half-swung Gaster up onto the back of his saddle, his breath a growl in his throat from the motion, ‘cause even after the rest he’d gotten as he’d traveled that gunshot of his was still mighty sore. Gaster wrapped his wiry arms around him, clinging on for dear life as they galloped full speed through that chaos, Ash slowly outpacing the heavy cattle as they bellowed and ran.

“What kind of fool idiot,” Grillby shouted, his flame all bright sparks, “Leaps off his horse _into a stampede?”_

Gaster, to his credit, wanted to have a good answer. But currently the whole inside of his head, where he assumed whatever functioned as his brain could be, had turned into something about the same consistency as the churned up ground they were running on. And his soul was caught up right on the base of his throat like he’d choke on it, and he was squeezing Grillby probably harder than he should because quite frankly, he couldn’t decide whether he was seeing things or not - probably because of the mind-turning-to-mush part of all that.

“Hold on tight,” Grillby said sorta needlessly, as Gaster had no intentions of ever letting go, possibly for the rest of his life - he hadn’t decided yet.

Grillby bent over his saddle and leaned with Ash as the horse charged through the stampede. Unlike Gaster, Grillby _had_ been through a stampede before - a few times, as fate would have it. It didn’t take much to startle a herd of cows into motion and if you didn’t have a good head on your shoulders you’d end up part of the landscape. And right now he knew they were in just about the most dangerous place you could be. Wouldn’t take much for Ash to turn her ankle and trip, and they’d be down and waiting to get mowed over. Or one of them cows could pitch into her side and gore horse and rider with them pointed horns. But he also knew Ash was swift and sure, and they’d been working together a mighty long time. So he spurred her on, gaining speed on the animals in front of them until they broke free of the herd completely, running ahead of it and fast and hard towards the rapidly approaching walls of Fort Chase. Monsters and men were scrambling there - the time in which everything had sprung into motion was maybe two or three minutes, not nearly enough time for people to scatter for safety - and Grillby got it in his head that they needed to turn the herd or else there would be a mighty number of people getting caught up in the mess. 

Gripping the reins tightly in one hand he cut in a wide arc, and he reached out the other and set a spark in the tall grass trailing wide behind him, burning up a leading wall in front of the stampeding herd. Afraid of the heat and the bright light, the lead steers cut to the side after him, following the line, and the herd still running started towards the south away from the Fort walls. Sure they’d be scattered between here and hell and back, and it’d be a mighty pain to have to rangle them all over again, but if it’d save them some blood and dust by the end of the day it might just be worth it.

It was about now that Ash was starting to slow, sides heaving and breaths coming in heavy pants from the very bottom of her lungs, and Grillby knew she’d had just about enough. The past several days, several _weeks_ , had been hard on the animal, and it’d been a hard ride to get here in the time that they had. This final sprint was about all she could handle, and the last thing he wanted was to run the poor critter into the ground. He stopped his trail of fire, sure the herd would be continuing on in the direction he’d sent it, and he swung Ash back clear of the river of cattle, slowing her to a walk when they were well out of harm’s way. Grillby watched the running animals long enough to take stock of the Higgins Gang who, seeing the herd weren’t going how they’d wanted it, switched their attention to the Fort proper, guns firing shots in the air as the folks continued to scatter.

They were going to need taking care of, and Grillby would. But first he needed to tend to his horse. Sorta forgetting Gaster still had a-hold around his waist, Grillby swung out of the saddle. He’d expected Gaster to let go of him, or maybe slip out of the saddle in the same motion. What happened instead was the two of them sorta tumbling onto the ground in a tangle of limbs and sparks. Gaster wound up on his back in the tall grass, and Grillby just managed to catch himself before he could fall on top of him, scared Gaster might’ve been wounded somehow and that he’d make matters worse.

Gaster reached up and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him down into just about the most desperate kiss you could ever give to a person. The kind of kiss that neither person really expects - one born out of so much fear you’d think the world had ended, and so much relief you’d think it’d been reborn again. A down-to-the-bottom-of-your-soul kiss, where time stops working, clocks run short, and you feel just about like you were sharing your very life with the person if you kissed them any harder. It left Grillby’s head spinning, stole away what little of his breath he’d had left from the run, and cast the grass in all sorts of bright colors Grillby was sure he’d never knew his fire could burn in, a cascade of purple, blue, pink, yellow and white like he’d been made of fireworks instead of fire.

Then Gaster let go of him, letting Grillby take the breath he didn’t realize he’d been forgetting to breathe while Gaster collapsed back into the grass again, smoke winding through his teeth. He let out a noise that could’ve been a laugh but very obviously wasn’t, and then crossed his arms over his eye sockets like he could hide underneath himself. 

“Well,” Grillby said, catching his breath, “I’m not _that_ bad of a kisser, so I’ll thank you for stopping the waterworks.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“Thinking’s a dangerous pastime for you.”

Gaster punched him hard in the shoulder, though given how close they were together and the odd angle, there wasn’t enough behind it to hurt Grillby none, “Oh shut up you - you goddamn - absolute - _bastard_.”

“Well I’m _your_ goddamn absolute bastard,” Grillby returned matter-of-factly, “So you’re going to have to learn to live with it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mortal peril on hold! Must kiss first!


	27. Led By Fire, Led By Fate; Murky Water Covers All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hellraiser and Gunsmoke take Fort Chase.

Distracted as the rest of the fort as with the sudden assault of the Higgins Gang, it was mighty simple for Gaster and Grillby to sneak their way over - though they ducked and darted for cover wherever they could find it regardless. The only soul they saw as they made their way was the engineer of the  _ Ebbot Zephyr _ , who herself was doing all she could to keep low while still keeping a line of sight on Fort Chase, waiting for some kinda sign she should be getting the train moving. When the pair of outlaws-turned-cowhands-turned-sorta-outlaws-again posted up beneath one of the  _ Zepher's _ cars, she caught their eye, and Grillby tipped his hat to her, trying to signal they was as friendly a pair of guns as they could be.

"They're shootin up a storm in there," she hollered to them, and Grillby didn't quite need the information. He could hear it loud and clear all his own. 

"You wouldn't happen to have seen how many rode in?" Grillby asked in about the same tone he'd ask the weather.

"Gotta be at least twenty of ‘em, stranger."

Well, Grillby looked at Gaster, "You figure we can take on twenty?"

"They prob’ly don't know we're coming," Gaster shrugged, "And I reckon I can empty a revolver in about ten seconds."

"Fish in a barrel for you then."

"Sure, ‘cept fish don’t normally shoot back."

"Well, good thing you got a walking lantern around then. Reckon I'm a bit easier to shoot at than you are."

Grillby chuckled and sparked a grin, but the joke fell flat on Gaster, who still seemed mighty tore up about Grillby's most recent brush with death. The skeleton's eyes hardened and his jaw set sorta stern.

"We'll be distracting together then, I s'pose," Grillby shrugged, and with a motion the two of them darted forward again, dodging toward the wide open doorway in the fort's walls. From the quick glance he got as he ran, Grillby saw mostly pandemonium. 

There were a smattering of buildings inside the fort's walls, namely an officer's quarters and soldier's barracks that seemed to be holding up the resistance on the left side - Grillby caught a glimpse of Asgore shootin’ fire out a shattered window there. Then to the right a small smithy, some storehouses, and a stables. It was in these that the outlaws seemed to be fanning about, dodging from building to building to gauge cover and likely looking for ammo and weapons as they went. A few stood in the parade grounds, which was essentially a glorified dust pit that extended between the wall and the buildings for about fifty feet, reserved for drilling the soldiers and currently a treacherous no-man's-land as return fire from those who'd made it to the barracks shot down most things that moved. There were bodies there, a couple from dropped horses and several more human, though on the quick glance Grillby got he didn't know how many might be civilians or people he knew.

Grillby and Gaster flattened themselves against the fort's outside wall, taking the cover while they had it.

"Reckon we gotta cross that parade grounds if we wanna do some shooting," Gaster kicked at a nearby dust pile.

"Yeah, and I ain't a fast runner."

"You alright?"

Grillby sparked a moment, confused until he realized he had a hand up against his chest, feeling that ache from the gunshot he'd taken, "Just sore as all hell. I was  _ shot _ off a bridge no more'n five or six days ago."

"How bad is it?"

"Sore," Grillby shrugged, "I ain't dying."

"Well if you ain't dying you can still shoot straight."

The two of them paused, Grillby pulling his rifle off his shoulder to make sure it was loaded. He'd grabbed a handful of shells from his saddlebags and shoved them into his pockets, and he hoped he had enough. Gaster drew one of his side-irons and pulled back the hammer.

"So," Grillby breathed, "What's the plan?"

"Now Grillby," Gaster said, some wicked sarcasm lilting his tone, "At what point did I manage to fool you into thinkin' I was the brains of this operation?"

“Well you had to be thinkin’  _ something  _ while you was riding all the way out here. What, you just go running hopin’ you could gun down the Higgins brothers before they put too many holes in you?”

Gaster looked away from him, and Grillby could fool himself into thinkin’ he looked sorta sheepish, fiddling with the brim of his hat like it was in his eyes and therefore a perfectly good reason to avoid makin’ eye-contact.

“We really gotta talk about your impulse control.”

“I thought you were dead!”

“I ain’t the only thing in this world worth livin’ for, jackass,” Grillby scowled at him, though he couldn’t fault him much, and he tried not to sound too harsh, “Alright, s’pose we do this the hard way then. Closest cover is the stables, and it’s got Higginses all over it.”

“We gonna make a run for it?”

“Don’t see what other choice we have,” Grillby checked the sights on his rifle, “Hopefully our folk will recognize us and focus fire elsewhere.”

“Figure we should give ‘em the Magic Bullet?”

Grillby paused and blinked, because to be honest, he hadn’t even thought of that. He smirked at Gaster, “And I thought you said you weren’t the brains of the operation.”

Gaster gave him a devilish grin and bowed, “After you, sir.”

Grillby nodded, clutched his rifle close in his hands and spun around the corner, trustin’ Gaster to follow close behind. He strode forward, long powerful steps across that dusty parade ground. He swung his rifle up to his shoulder and paused just long enough to make sure the man in his sights was an outlaw before pulling the trigger. Grillby counted as he unloaded his rifle, taking note of every time he felt it kick in his hands. He couldn’t count on the sound of the gunshot, ‘cause right as he squeezed that trigger to fire the air was full up with the sound of snake-bones and the shrieking charge of heavy magic like some wildcat’s yowl, and about the same time Grillby’s first shot went speeding down the barrel of his gun Gaster let loose with that fury of magic, walking one step behind him, arm outstretched. The blast barrelled across the ground colliding with the side of the stable and sending wood shattering and catching everything ablaze. The world was suddenly filled with fire and smoke and the callin’ of folks caught off-guard and unawares.

Grillby kept counting and kept firing and kept walking. He saw two men drop, black silhouettes against the yellow-white fire now eatin’ its way up to the roof of the stable. Then his gun was out and he stopped walking abruptly, his hand diving into a pocket to grab some shells and reload. Gaster strode past him, cutting off his stream of magic, hands dropping to them six-shooters just as fast as you please and when those guns cleared leather he was firing just as fast as his fingers could pull back the hammer. While Grillby reloaded his rifle he was reaching out his magic in every direction and his intent with it because he felt a mighty need to burn.

See, the ‘Magic Bullet’ as Gaster had called it was a fun little trick the two of them had come up with together during one of their worser run-ins with the law. They sorta figured out if they timed it right, for a little while at least, they could alternate between ammo and magic just as pretty as you please. All that smoke and noise and flashing color did a lot to scare off a body of folks who didn’t know it was coming, and if you was trying to get somewhere fast, well, that was all you really needed. Now, there weren’t much accuracy in this sort of maneuver. It was sprintin’ really, moving as fast and impressively as you could and praying nothing kill’t you while you went. But sometimes it worked -  _ now  _ it worked.

Grillby was takin’ sparks from that burning stable and like a cloud of biting fireflies setting them to shower on a couple of silhouettes Grillby saw in front of him, scattering them for cover. Gaster pulled up short in front of him, shoving bullets into one of those pieces of his, magic roarin up to life while Grillby raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired. A few more paces and they were up near the stable proper, covered for now by the burning structure. Grillby looked up to the roof while Gaster finished reloading his guns, ideas catching sparks in his mind. It would be a frightful blind corner for the two of them to turn to go around this stable into whatever men was waitin on them, but Grillby figured aside from a fall he didn’t have much to fear from the roof so he flashed Gaster a wicked sorta grin and said, “Give me a lift?”

Gaster caught on right quick and whistled sharp between his teeth, “You fall through that roof and I’m gonna laugh.”

But he cupped his hands regardless, giving Grillby a step and the two of them hauling together jumped Grillby in reach of the roof. His hands latched onto the wood shingles and snarling smoke he hauled himself up, only remembering that gunshot he was still bellyachin’ over when it sent a tear up his side when he moved. But he crawled up, and took off over that roof at about the same time Gaster slipped into the billowing smoke to round the side of the building. Grillby slid down the slope of burning shingles, hoping he moved fast enough not to catch his clothes on fire, though he was already smelling the fabric, and his sleeves and collar were dotted in cinder holes. The flames were licking pretty high up the roof already, all that wood and thatch just burning as pretty as you please. It was a hungry fire, and stepping over it put a burn in his chest he figured must be what Flukes felt like before a spell.

Grillby paused to peer over the side of the roof, catching a glimpse of the topside of a pair of hat brims all black-felted, guns trained on that blind corner Gaster would be rounding in a few strides. Grillby smirked, pointed his rifle down at the pair of outlaws, and whistled to get their attention and a clearer shot at a pair of shocked faces. Grillby’s rifle dropped one and scattered the second, just in time for Gaster’s revolver to send him pitching into the dirt.

“How long you figure you can stay up there?” Gaster hollered over the sound of the fire.

“ ‘Til the roof caves in or I get shot.”

“Cover me then.”

Gaster dashed off, keeping to the cover the billowing smoke gave him. Being a monster made of bones and not much else, he didn’t have nearly so much to fear from breathing in the blackness as most humans and fleshier monsters did. It was one of the many reasons he and Grillby made a good team. Grillby took a knee on the edge of the roof, rifle flashing as he aimed and shot at just about damn near anything that moved, but there weren’t much of that in eyesight now. The stable was about fifty yards from the line of storehouses, and a bit farther from there the brick walls of the smithy were an off-color red against all the mud-and-wood brown of the rest of the fort. Gunfire still rung out from the smithy, and Grillby caught a glint of metal through some of the broken windows, though none of it trained at him. They was still too busy shooting Asgore and company all holed up in the barracks. When they’d run this direction, Grillby had seen a few outlaws scatter towards the storehouses taken cover from him and Gaster’s magic. After a few shots from the rooftop they’d made themselves mighty scarce behind them wooden walls.

Grillby held his breath and tracked for movement, even just a glimpse of Gaster in that black smoke but he saw none. It made him nervous. Made him wonder if someone might be sneaking up on him for one, and for another made him worry that his eyes were worse than he thought they was and maybe he was just shit blind to something he should be seeing. But he could see them storehouses just fine, only a little bit of blur on the hard edges, and he could still see color moving so he waited, counting seconds and how fast he thought Gaster could spider his way over. Then there came that familiar  _ crack  _ of revolver fire, a longer tone than normal, and Grillby knew it must be Gaster shooting. Weren’t no one else he knew that could fire a gun so fast the shots turned into one sound instead of two. 

Grillby caught a flash of color from the side of one of the storehouses. The shingles on the roof beside him exploded, and the whole building crackled and shuddered, and Grillby figured he’d spent about as much time up here as the burning building would let him. He took care to train his eyes and his magic on the flashing barrel still aimed in his direction. He snapped his fingers, a wire-thin trail of sparks springing out towards his mark, and he leaped off the roof landing on the balls of his feet and rolling to spread the force a bit and keep his ankles from turning. About the time he sprung up standing there was a shattering of noise, part of it the gun exploding as his sparks lit the powder in the muzzle. The other louder bit of it was the groaning of the stable as it finally gave out, sending up a plume of smoke and cinders at Grillby’s back as it fell to tinder. 

Grillby sprinted for the nearest storehouse, needing cover and his partner in crime. He shoved a few rounds into his rifle when he got to the side wall. He turned the corner at about the same time someone else did, and the both of them leaped back, guns coming up to aim and shoot.

And both Grillby and Gaster scowled, figuring out they’d just about filled each other with holes. Gaster’s face was smudged with ash from his run through the smoke, the black of his clothes salt-and-peppered with cooled cinders like a fresh snowfall on his sharp shoulders, and Grillby thought it made him look striking.

“I thought I told you to stay on the roof!” Gaster snarled at him, taking a second to brush some ashes from his hat brim.

Grillby shrugged, “Well there ain’t a roof no more, so I figured I’d come help.”

“I just about filled you with lead, dumbass.”

“Would you rather I’d called you out and let God and everyone know where I was?”

“Just sayin’, I think you took a mighty stupid risk is all.”

“Not half as stupid as running out here without a plan, I don’t think.”

Gaster scowled at him, an endearingly pestered look that Grillby got a small swelling of fondness over. It was sorta funny, Gaster with his hackles up and sounding everything like an angry mother hen and nothing like a ferocious shootist on the prowl for people to put holes in. Grillby was just about of the mind to say something about it, when he saw Gaster’s gaze shift over his shoulder. The two of them dove just about at the same time, a spray of splintered wood shattering just past where Grillby figured his head would be. By the time Grillby hit the dust the sound of the gunshot caught up with the blast, and Gaster returned fire over the side of Grillby’s shoulder. Grillby got to his feet, blooming smoke and cinders so as to make the two of them harder to see. He grabbed Gaster’s free hand and dragged him, running crouched low while the skeleton peppered forward a few more shots.

“You’ve blinded me!”

“You rather I leave us without any cover?”

Grillby could hear the frown in Gaster’s voice, “I can shoot faster than he could, if you’d just given me a second-”

They flattened themselves against the second storehouse, working their way closer to the smithy and the barracks. The exchange of fire between the two groups of folks had pattered out to a few bursts here or there, and Grillby was starting to wonder if this fight might be coming to an end soon. Everyone just needed to hold out a little longer.

“How we getting to that barracks?” Gaster asked, taking the brief lull to reload and take stock of their surroundings. His gaze lingered for a moment on a bloodstain against the wall of the smithy nearby, and the body slumped underneath. Probably looking for a face he could recognize.

“The smith is between us and them,” Grillby said, and he realized he was out of breath, and his chest was blooming almighty sore. He’d used a lot of magic; been doing a lot of running besides. Glancing at Gaster, there was a wild sorta tilt to his magic, all disheveled and jittery like some caged critter who’d just about fought himself exhausted.

“I could run it.”

“They’ll fill you with holes.”

Gaster spun his gun around his finger and holstered it, “Not if you give ‘em a reason to keep their heads down.”

“They’ll fill  _ me  _ with holes,” Grillby said, “B’sides, they’ve got the windows of the smithy shot out. Bet they could hit you a lot easier than I could hit them.”

Gaster shifted nervously on his feet, darting another glance around the side of the building towards the barracks, “Hell, I don’t got a good feeling. It’s gettin’ too quiet and I reckon it’s not because of us.”

As soon as he said it, Grillby realized the gunfire had stopped. Silence had settled over Fort Chase like it curled up and died there, and for the life of him Grillby couldn’t see why. There was quite a few Higginses dead he figured, but not nearly enough. And if they’d turned to running he would’ve seen them, or heard the victory shouts from the barracks saying they’d won. Gaster was right - something was wrong, and it’d gone wrong right quick, while they’d been bickering and running for cover.

The door to the barracks burst open of a sudden, and in a tumble of muscle and fur Asgore poured out of the splintered doorway like he’d been thrown through it. And out behind him, shotgun in his burly hands came Thomas Higgins, the barrel of that gun aimed down at the boss monster at his feet. But his eyes weren’t on Asgore. He looked straight on as he hollered, “Hellraiser! Gunsmoke! Me and my men are riding out of here with Asgore, or I’ll take his soul in front of his kin right here, right now. Your choice, boys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tooth and nail, tooth and nail  
>  (Murky water covers all) _
> 
> * * *
> 
> Decided to do a self-imposed detox/isolation of social media and shit and about 3 days in I sat down to write this with no plan and it kinda just, happened. So that's pretty cool.  
> Gonna be hilarious though when I break that self-imposed detox/isolation to post this on Tumblr and Discord XD
> 
> It's interesting watching my energy switch streams.


	28. You Can't Raise Hell with a Saint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we catch a train

Grillby would’ve liked to say a lot went running through his mind when he saw Asgore and Tom, all blood and fury in the kicked-up dust of Fort Chase. There was a lot of things he _should_ be thinkin’. Like how the hell Tom had gotten to the barracks before him and Gaster had. Or if the rest of Asgore’s hands was dead or not, or the kids for that matter, since he figured they’d come along with Asgore to run the cattle to the railroad. Manuel and Vera were good friends and he’d be sore to lose them, and Eide and Michael had just signed on this year - would be unfair for them to lose their lives over this mess. Then the kids - they were just kids. Kids about to lose their Daddy in about the most violent way a feller could imagine just because he happened to be what some badman was looking for.

Grillby wasn’t thinking about any of that though. Matter of fact, it felt like his mind had decided to play possum and all his thoughts just grinded to a halt. About the only thing he managed over the span of several seconds was to quietly agree when Gaster swore out loud. 

“What’ll it be boys? I ain’t got all day,” Tom howled, and gave Asgore a solid kick with the toe of his boot for good measure. Asgore, to his credit, seemed to know how bad a situation he was in and ignored the gesture, opting to just stay crouched on the ground, his magic so still it was nearly gone altogether. 

Gaster breathed out a rattlesnake hiss, “What do we do?”

Grillby screwed his eyes shut and scowled, and stepped out from their cover, hands up and rifle in sight. Gaster muttered a colorful line of swears under his breath.

“Well now Tom, that just plain ain’t fair,” Grillby said, with all the calculated calm of an ember hiding just below a powder barrel, “And no fun either.”

“How the hell are you alive?”

“Well that’s just the tick, the devil seemed sorta scared I’d make a ruckus so he kicked me out.”

Tom curled his lip in something like a snarl, his salt-and-pepper mustache bristling up like cactus pins and Grillby figured he’d made him angry, “Where’s your smoke trail?”

There was a heartbeat of a moment where Grillby thought Gaster might get mad and do something that would get Asgore killed - it made sense to him that for everything to go wrong properly, Gaster would have to choose this moment to be impulsive, and everything sure seemed to be going wrong right about now. But much to his surprise, Gaster slunk out of the shadow of the storehouse, hands splayed out at his sides to show he weren’t holding nothing, his pistols holstered securely at his hips.

“Well, we had a good run,” Gaster shrugged uselessly, “Asgore, you got any final words you want us to tell the Missus on your behalf?”

Grillby shot him a glare, but Gaster seemed ever unconcerned. He had firmly set on his face one of his most unnerving, snake-caging grins, like for all of Grillby’s stalling and stammering he was thinking a thousand things. Grillby didn’t know what he was thinking, and he figured that was probably the whole point. About the scariest Gaster could be to a cornered man was to be unpredictable.

“You shut up,” Tom jabbed that shotgun in Gaster’s direction, and if anything the skeleton’s grin got wider, “Every word outta your damn mouth is trouble.”

“I was born trouble,” Gaster agreed, “And I ain’t done with it yet.”

Tom gave Asgore another solid shove with his boot, while behind him the unhappy few haggard remains of the Higgins gang emerged from the barracks. A few more slipped from the smith as well, about eight of them altogether, and only some of them intact. Seemed they’d had their fair share of bad luck during their siege, and Grillby figured if the gang were given long enough to run, well, they’d split apart to infighting after a defeat like this. ‘Cept Tom would have Asgore’s soul by then, and that was something Grillby didn’t want. Presently he was weighing his odds if Tom ever showed up on his doorstep all ate up with monster magic, and he figured he wouldn’t stand much of a chance.

Asgore clamored to his feet, Tom’s shotgun pointed at his back, and huddled together the whole lot of them started following Tom from the barracks moving slow and cautious, eyes and guns trained in just about every direction scared of someone firing another shot.

“Mathew 28:4,” Gaster purred like the Devil himself had up and started spoutin’ scripture, “And for fear of him the guards trembled and became like dead men.”

“What the hell you yammerin’ on about, rattlesnake preacher?” Tom spat, his voice all tense like Gaster was starting to get to him.

“Gaster…” Grillby whispered in warning.

“You can run, Thomas Higgins, but you can’t hide,” Gaster said, “You’re a dead man walking, and I can smell your bones rotting from here.”

Well that stopped Tom dead in his tracks, and for a second it looked like he might do something about all of Gaster’s venom. Tom was scared, Grillby realized, unnerved by everything that had happened, and so were what remained of his gang. And it was a dangerous thing to be surrounded by terrified men, all with blood on their hands and the itching to have more. Before Tom could make up his mind on just what he wanted to do, there was a shout of a familiar voice, and once again Gaster swore, because it was Cain.

Cain Higgins had survived the stampede, and now he was standing by the _Ebott Zephyr_ , a hand up and crackling magic, “Come on Tom! Finish your business later. We got what we came for let’s go.”

With no other words he leaped into the engine. A bellow of smoke and steam it erupted from that tall smoke-stack as it roared to life. Well Tom didn’t need telling twice. That gang made a break for the train, Asgore getting jabbed in the back by that shotgun barrel when Tom thought he weren’t moving fast enough.

“Grillby,” Gaster said quietly, “You think you can hit Tom from here?”

“He’ll see me aiming.”

“You think he gives two shits about you aiming? He’s busy scaring Asgore.”

“If I miss he’ll shoot him.”

“You ain’t gonna miss.”

“Then Cain will kill him, and he’ll be a hell of a lot worse with a boss monster soul than his brother.”

"And what makes you think they ain't gonna kill him as soon as they're down the tracks?"

Well, that was a fair point, and one that put the fear of Thomas and Cain Higgins in Grillby. He dithered over it for a few more seconds, nervousness crackling his fire sickness green, his rifle clenched in his hands. 

“Come on, sharpshooter. Two hundred yards, you can do this.”

Grillby cursed and set his rifle against his shoulder, looking down the sight long and hard. All them fellers were just blobs of color from the distance, and Grillby bit his lip trying to figure out which color was Tom. He set one in his sights as the stall door of one of the livestock cars opened.

“Take your shot, sparks,” Gaster hissed again, a hand on the small of Grillby’s back like he could help him. Grillby’s finger tensed around the trigger.

With bitter defeat making smoke in his breath, Grillby dropped the rifle away, “God _damnit_ I can’t see good enough.”

“You’re kidding.”

“They’re all wearing black and grey Gaster! I can’t tell which one is even Tom.”

The group of outlaws piled onto the train car and the door slammed shut. Slowly, the rig lurched down the tracks. Gaster whistled for his horse.

“What the hell are you doing?” Grillby asked, becoming aware of folks slowly emerging from the nearby buildings - namely a few doors down on the barracks.

“I’m going after them,” Gaster said, that buckskin horse of his trotting faithfully at his call.

“You’re gonna get yourself _and_ Asgore killed.”

“Asgore’s a dead monster anyway as soon as those boys recover enough to do something about him,” Gaster said, “Besides, I promised I’d make dead men of those Higgins boys and I ain’t letting a train stop me.”

“They’re _gone_ ,” Grillby insisted, feeling - feeling _something_. Frantic and panicked and defeated and like he was about to lose even more, “You can’t race a _train_ Gaster.”

But Gaster was hardly listening to him, already mounting up on his horse’s back, angry determination squaring his shoulders, “I’ve got a chance as long as I catch up before that train hits top speed.”

“Gaster _don’t!”_ Grillby shouted, “Damnit this isn’t the time to get pissed and run off on some fool’s errand-!”

“It ain’t a fool’s errand!” Gaster snapped back, “Them Higgins boys are a menace and they’re about to have all the magic they ever damn wanted in their hands. I came up here to keep you safe - and I came up here to _stop them_ and they’re getting away. Now they’re hurt and they’re exhausted and they’re on the run, and you and I _both_ know what that does to an outfit like that. They’re ready to break apart at the seams. If they’re gonna die today, it’s gonna be right here, right now - or they’ll be gone and they’ll be in every headline from here to Kingdom come with all their bedlam!”

Grillby had to admit he was surprised by the sound logic, and surprised again when Gaster reached out a hand to help him on the back of the saddle, “We started this damn feud on a train, Hellraiser. Let’s go put it to rest on one.”

Grillby looked up at Gaster, and to his outstretched hand. His soul was all tied up in knots because he was sure they’d already lost, and for all of Gaster’s logic that the Higginses were tired and on their last legs he knew they were too. But it was about then that he saw Chara and Asriel come stumbling out of the barracks, looking roughed up and distraught from their own hand in the fighting, and Grillby’s soul hardened itself back up again.

“We’ll never catch up if we’re both weighing down your horse,” he grumbled, and whistled for Ash. That grey-freckled horse galloped for him from outside the Fort walls, looking tuckered as all get-out but with her ears forward like she was excited to try again. Grillby swung into the saddle and Gaster flashed him a ferocious grin. With a whoop of a warcry Gaster spurred his horse forward, intent on his quarry, but Grillby paused. He looked to the pair of haggard kids, nodded to them and said, “We’ll be back with your Dad, just wait a bit longer,” and then he followed Gaster towards the tracks. 

They went just about as fast as those horses could go, riding like hell came behind them despite how much it felt more like hell was already sitting pretty on that train. It was a heavy cargo steamer about twenty cars long not counting the engine and caboose, all ready for Asgore’s herd had they ever gotten the chance to load it. If that train had been loaded, well, Grillby was sure it would’ve had a much harder time taking off down the tracks, but with only the weight of the cars to worry about it picked up speed much faster. Still, for now they were gaining on it, running to one side to avoid the smoke trail that bellowed behind it like a blistering cloud. Grillby ran shortly behind Gaster, bent double over Ash’s neck as she let loose and praying he didn’t run her into the ground for all the hard work he was making her go through. But he was a light rider and she was strong and they kept pushing.

Thirty feet, twenty feet away from the caboose of the train and Grillby was running through how in the hell he could even get on board. The most obvious answer was to jump, and that was likely what he’d end up doing, but the fear of miss-timing his leap had his soul choked up something fierce. It wouldn’t take much for him to slip beneath the wheels of that beastly machine, and he didn’t figure he’d survive getting cut to ribbons on the tracks.

“Keep an eye out Grillby!” Gaster shouted at him over the noise of the rattling cars and the wind whipping past their ears, “I thought I saw someone walk by one of the windows in the caboose!”

Grillby scowled, wondering what the hell he would even be able to do if some shooter came out to stand on the caboose rail. The train cars were constantly moving and it’d surely jostle their aim, but it’d still be pretty easy to hit the pair of riders tailing the car. And then Grillby remembered he still had a length of rope tied to his saddle, ready with a lasso. He already had it circling in the air above him when that badman Gaster’d seen opened the caboose door, cigarette in hand like he was about to start his watch for trouble only to see trouble had already found him. Grillby let his lasso fly, dropping it around the man’s head and shoulders and with a solid yank pulled him over the rail of the car. He hit the tracks howling, and Gaster had to jump his horse over the poor fool to keep from running him over. Grillby let go of his rope for fear of dragging the man to his death across the tracks - he’d be busted up enough from the fall anyway.

By the time Grillby was looking back forward again, Gaster was already standing in his stirrups, one foot up on the saddle, timing his leap onto the train. There was a heartbeat of a moment where Gaster paused, and if it weren’t for the way that beat up black duster of his whipped about in the wind time could’ve been standing still. He lunged, feet and hands landing solidly on the rail and grabbing on, crouched for a second like some big black vulture bird before he dropped onto the car.

“Did you have to make it look that easy?” Grillby yelled at him. Gaster laughed.

Grillby nudged Ash on faster, because every second that train was speeding up and he could tell already it was starting to leave him behind. It was going mighty fast, the spokes of the railroad tracks blurring together in a solid smear of brown and grey, and Ash was getting tired again. Grillby slid one foot up beneath him on the saddle, clinging tight to the horn, afraid of the fall. He reminded himself again and again he’d done this before. He’d surely leaped onto a train when he was doing his outlaw business - though normally it was the passenger sort that weren’t going at top speed. He held his breath as Ash neared, and the gap between him and the caboose looked terrifying for how long it was but she couldn’t get any closer.

“Come on!” Gaster shouted to him.

“Damn it then!” Grillby hissed and jumped.

He landed much less gracefully than Gaster did, in part because he didn’t time his jump quite right. His hands landed on the rail but his feet fell short and it was all he could do to hang on and not lose his grip. Then there was a heave in his chest, that wound of his screaming about being forgotten and it hurt so bad Grillby was nearly forced to let go, his eyes all screwed shut and his breath yanked from him in a gasp. But then Gaster’s hands were fisted into his jacket and with a solid heave he pulled Grillby up. He got his feet under him, stepping between the railing bars before making the final vault over the rail and into the safety of the train car. He fell to the steel floor in the doorway, a hand clutched to his chest and his breath coming in heaves. Gaster hovered over him concerned, but he didn’t dare speak. Only crouched and waited for Grillby to recover before leading the way into the caboose, gun drawn. Grillby finally crawled to his feet, his whole body aching, and he closed the door behind them. 

Grillby had forgotten how loud it was on the outside of the train until instantly the sound muffled when the door shut, and the bright streaming sunlight of the outside world was replaced with the dark interior of the car. The two of them paused a moment, letting their eyes adjust to the dim light. The caboose of the train was a functional thing normally reserved for the train’s crew, and so it was barebones and cramped. There was a cast iron stove to one side and a little sink, as well as a couple of booths and a couch for sleeping. The two of them were alone inside, save for a single unopened can of beans sitting on the stovetop like someone got caught before they could have their breakfast.

“Okay,” Gaster breathed a whisper, “What now?”

“You ever go into anything with a plan?”

“You ever get tired of asking stupid questions?”

Grillby rolled his eyes.

“How’s your sore spot?”

“Hurts like hell,” Grillby scowled, and he meant it, “Figure it’ll hurt more when I get shot a second time.”

“Just make sure you bleed on something real inconvenient,” Gaster said, trying to find some humor but there was worry in his voice, “Like the coal car or something.”

Grillby allowed himself a smirk, then he said, “Alright, you’re taking point ‘cause I’m bright as the sun in here. We move slow, quiet as you can. Figure as soon as shootin’ starts, folks’ll get wind we’re here and I’d rather catch those Higgins boys by surprise.”

Gaster nodded, seeming to think it was as good a plan as any. Checking the window to make sure there was no one standing between the cars, Gaster opened the door leading to the first cattle car. He waited long enough for Grillby to press himself against the wall out of sight before cracking the door open, pausing, and slipping inside. Grillby breathed and counted, parsing through numbers in his head ‘til he felt he’d waited long enough and then followed after. 

Aside from a few disheveled piles of hay, the first several cars they checked were empty, and that seemed to be about how they figured it would go. The way Grillby thought it in his head, most of the outfit would be keeping an eye on Asgore, since he was a big monster and dangerous, even with a gun waved in his face. And if he decided to get mad and mean he could surely kill some of those boys before they managed to kill him. They sent one man to the back of the train to make sure they weren’t being followed, but most of them would be all clumped together. He had no idea who’d be driving the train, or even how long they could drive it for. The tracks were straight-laid for miles, but as soon as the breaks on this thing had to be hit, well, the Higgins Gang might just bail out and let the train derail somewhere. Grillby surely doubted any of them had gainful employment as an engineer at some point. Not that Grillby could really judge too much in that regard. The closest he’d gotten to honest living was running a bar.

They’d worked their way up about fifteen cars when they got their first sign of the Higgins Gang on the train. Gaster led them into what must’ve been the car they squeezed into when the train took off. There was hay kicked all over the place, and a few cigarette butts on the ground where a few of the boys had taken a moment to steel their nerves. Grillby stomped on out that looked like it might still be smoking - no use setting the train on fire. Not yet anyway.

Gaster was already creeping up to the door between their car and the next. He slipped like a shadow through the cracked doorway wraith-like and quick, and just as quick he slipped back in again, surprising Grillby with his reentry.

“Next car over,” Gaster hissed low, “I heard ‘em talking from outside the door.”

“Could you tell how many?”

“Well I got a glance through the door window but didn’t get a head count. Didn’t see Tom or Cain though. This far up the train - figure they’re the ones driving this thing?”

Well Grillby stewed on that for a minute, before casting a meaningful look up at the ceiling and asking, “How loud d’you figure that conversation they’re having is?”

Gaster smirked catching on, his eyes bright and dangerous.

The two of them made their way through the doorway, Gaster haunting the shadow of the next car while Grillby found the ladder leading to the roof and scrambled up it, breathing smoke. Stepping gingerly on the balls of his feet he crept across the roof, making slowly to the side of the trundling rail car. Beneath him, he could hear the raised voices of the men fighting, though he couldn’t rightly make out what was being said. Not that it mattered much to him - all he cared about was them making a racket to begin with. Grillby made over to the side of the car, by the rolling door that folks loaded cattle into. He reached over the edge and knocked.

Now the boys in the car below shut up right quick, and for a long while all Grillby heard was the sound of the train moving and the wind whippin’. Feeling impatient, Grillby knocked again. This time he heard a bit of shuffling as some fool made his way towards that rolling door. There was a rattle as the latch was fiddled with. Grillby crouched as that door rolled open and then he swung inside. Both his feet planted themselves in the chest of the poor fool who’d swung that car door open, kicking the wind right out of him and knocking him to the floor. Grillby landed crouched, ducking the dazed swings from a pair of badmen who hadn’t been ready for that bright sun in their eyes.

Grillby flashed up smashing a solid right hook to the nearest man’s face and pulling one of his knives free with the other. There was the solid crackle of snake-bone magic and Gaster, who’d slunk in quietly during the chaos, knocked two men out of the train and screaming into the dust outside. Now Grillby had a breath to get his bearings, eyeing the remaining outlaws in the car. There was six left after the two Gaster’d pitched off the side. One was dealing with a bloody nose, one was still on the floor looking like Grillby’s kick had done a bit more harm than just knocking his wind from him. There was the four remaining all crowded together looking rough already from their firefight earlier - one in particular who looked like he was sporting a gunshot graze on his shoulder.

A big ‘ol black shadow suddenly loomed up behind them, horns scraping the ceiling as Asgore got to his feet from where he’d been hunkered down at the back of the car. He let out a bull-like snort, sparks and smoke billowing when he did, and Grillby felt magic teeming up in the air like brontide in a thunder cloud. He’d only ever seen Asgore’s magic once or twice, but he knew he didn’t want to be this close, and he didn’t want Gaster to neither.

Grillby wrapped his arm around Gaster’s waist and dragged the both of them to the nearest corner of the train car, ignoring the skeleton’s curses in confusion and protest. He leaned Gaster up against the wall at about the same time Asgore let out a fierce flash of billowing fire magic like some wellspring fountain of malintent that’d been waiting to rip loose. Then Asgore held out his hand, his intent coalescing into some massive forked weapon in his hands. There was a flash of blue color in the boss monster’s eyes and Asgore growled low, “Don’t move.”

That fancy pitchfork of his crashed into the floorboards at his feet, pinning two of them badmen to the ground. The one who’d froze up at the sound of Asgore’s voice landed neatly between the prongs, unharmed as much as he could be given the singe-ing he’d taken. The feller beside him however had one of those wicked prongs through his shoulder, and was laying with his mouth wide open like he’d frozen to shock. In the span of two, three seconds, Asgore had done a world of hurt to those boys.

Meanwhile Grillby and Gaster were chest to chest against the wall on the far side of the car, Gaster looking almighty flustered pinned against the wall like that, and just for the fun of it Grillby gave him a wink. Gaster punched his shoulder to get him to move, drawing his six-shooter in nearly the same motion to train it on the four remaining gang who were stamping the fire off their clothes. The lot of them, shaken up, wounded, all their advantages gone - save for having numbers on the monsters, which they was quickly figuring out weren’t helping them none - started throwing their weapons down in surrender. They were a haggard bunch, exhausted and beaten down and set aflame a few too many times, soot-stained and smoke-stained and blood-stained besides. 

“Asgore, what would you like us to do about these fellers we got left?” Gaster said evenly, gun still trained on the outlaws before him like he was itching to do something about them, “Figure it’s your call, since it’s been you and your kin they’ve been hounding all season.”

Now Asgore looked down at Gaster like he’d never seen the monster before, and Grillby figured he probably would, since outside of being a bitter character to get along with Gaster hadn’t shown much of his cold-blooded venom around the ranch. But his fangs was out now and meaner than any rattlesnake Gaster had his eyes and intent on the broken pieces of the Higginses’ outfit. Asgore looked to Grillby like he’d intervene, only to see that same cold look and intent reflected in that corpse-blue-burning of Grillby’s flame.

“S’pose those men weren’t lying when they said you two were really those outlaws Hellfire and Gunsmoke,” Asgore said quietly.

Gaster flashed one of them snake-caging grins, all mischief and malintent, “Now who would ever lie about a fool thing like that? S’pose I wouldn’t either, ‘cept no one ever asks.”

Grillby flickered a humorless smirk, “Suppose they haven’t.”

“I would rather these men face justice for what they’ve done,” Asgore placed his words carefully, like he were trying to figure how to tell a wolf to heel, “If this train gets stopped, a sheriff surely won’t be far behind, and whatever is left of Fort Chase with them.”

“Not sure that’ll work Mister Dreemurr sir,” Gaster said, “See, me and Grillby were fixing to go have a word with them Higgins brothers, and I’m not sure I want to leave you by your lonesome with these gentlemen here.”

“ _Shoot_ we ain’t gonna do nothing,” one of them spoke up, his hands palm-open to show he had nothing in them, “You think any more of us is ready to die for them Higgins boys?”

Looking at them and their intent in the air, strong and facing-forward as humans always seemed to wear such stuff, Grillby had to admit the man weren’t lying. These boys were beat and they knew it, and what’s more they’d dropped their weapons so they were more or less toothless - especially with Asgore finally getting the kind of gumption to get dangerous about his situation.

“I can handle them,” Asgore said, “Now that they’re not waving buckshot in my face.”

That seemed to placate Gaster a might, though he was still onto something, “Which one of you boys gave the Dreemurr kid a black eye? The redheaded one.”

The four men exchanged glances, then finally the man who’d spoke first pointed out the feller beside him. A snarl of a grin made it to Gaster’s face.

“Gaster,” Asgore’s voice was sharp, “I’d ask you not do these men any more harm on my account - me or my sons’.”

“Ain’t on no account but my own sir,” Gaster said, “Good Lord knows I can’t stand a man who beats on kids.”

Grillby placed a hand gently on Gaster’s shoulder before he could do much rash and said, “Tell you what, why don’t we compromise. Leave him be for now - we got too much of a fight with them brothers to deal with anyway. But if he’s hear when we get back, we tie him to the back of that buckskin and drag him all the way back to Fort Chase.”

Just the mention of such a thing made Asgore balk, and the man Gaster was staring down so harshly go pale. But all that cloud of bitter intent that had mantled itself around Gaster’s shoulders sorta shrugged itself off, and he stalked away, which was about as close to an agreement as Grillby figured he’d get. Wordlessly, Gaster slipped out the door to the next car, and before following him Grillby paused.

“You sure you’ll be fine holding up here, Mister Dreemurr?”

“I’m sure I will.”

“Alright then,” Grillby hesitated and then said, “I’m sorry things worked out this way sir.”

“I feel the same way, though I’m thinking maybe you mean it different.”

“I didn’t figure I wanted anyone on Deadwood to see me like this,” Grillby explained, “But you always knew I was dangerous.”

“I s’pose I did,” Asgore said.

“Do me a favor sir, when all this is over, try and remember me when you knew I was kinder, would you?”

“You say that like you aren’t coming back.”

“Well I surely plan to, Mister Dreemurr,” Grillby said, “But I figure if I come back, things’ll be different whether I get those boys or not. I been seen a bit too much for what I really am, and there ain’t no unseeing it. But I do care for you and your family sir, and I care about Tilly and Vera and Manuel and even them new hires you got in this year. And if I gotta be seen to keep all that safe, well, s’pose some things just have to be.”

Grillby tipped his hat to Asgore in farewell and followed Gaster into the next train car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Young blood, run like a river  
>  Young blood, never get chained  
> Young blood, heaven need a sinner  
> You can't raise hell with a saint  
> Young blood, came to start a riot  
> Don't care what your old man say  
> Young blood, heaven hate a sinner  
> But we gonna raise hell anyway_
> 
> Raise Hell -- Dorothy
> 
> * * *
> 
> Happy Halloween guys :3  
> I procrastinated homework to do this and I can feel the adrenaline spiking.

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I'll stop ignoring stories I already have going in order to chase the bliss of a new idea.  
> Today is not that day.


End file.
